Mine to Keep (2 page)

He’d jerked on a pair of jeans and then followed Skye out onto the balcony. He stood now, watching her as she walked along the shore. The waves crashed against her feet.

Skye. His beautiful, lost Skye.

The nightmares weren’t stopping, and the pain in her green eyes seemed to be getting worse with each passing day.

The trip to the Keys had been designed to heal her wounds.   

Not make them worse.

“Boss, you’re not going to believe who dropped by for a little visit today.” Reese’s voice flowed easily over the line.

Trace kept his eyes on Skye. Was she going into the water?

“Ben Sharpe was here, looking for you.”

A hard breath blew from Trace. The name was from his past, a blood-soaked past that he’d tried to bury. “What the hell did he want?”

“The guy said he had a message. One that he could only give to you.”

Figured. 

“But, there was…there was something about his eyes…” Now hesitation had entered Reese’s voice, and that in itself was damn unusual.  “The man’s been unstable for years, hell, I know that, but this was different.”

Trace didn’t take his eyes off Skye. Her scent was on him. She’d marked him in ways that went far beneath the skin.

“He was afraid,” Reese added.  “Terrified.”

“Everyone is afraid of something,” Trace murmured. He’d learned to fear recently.  Before, he tried to fool himself into thinking that he was invulnerable.

Then a bastard had tried to take Skye from him.

No one takes her.

She’d waded into the water.  She looked so small out there.

And her robe was getting soaked.   

“He came to the penthouse,” Reese told him, “not the security agency.” 

Weston Securities wasn’t just an agency. It was the biggest private security firm in the United States. Trace had built it with blood and sweat. And with the aid of secrets. So many deadly secrets.

“Tell me you have a man on him,” Trace said.  Because Reese would understand how important—and volatile—Ben could be.

Reese had been in hell with Trace. They’d both survived.

As had Ben…   

Well, Ben had
mostly
survived.

The waves crashed into Skye. She stumbled.

Trace surged forward.    

“Yeah, a guy’s on him,” Reese said, sounding annoyed now. “Jeez, boss, what do you think this is? Amateur hour? I’m calling because I thought you’d want to know. I thought this news might make you get your ass off that island. You have to come back home sooner or later.”

Yes, he did.

He’d let Skye hide long enough.   

The nightmares aren’t going away. This place doesn’t make her feel any safer.

“We’ll be coming back on the jet tomorrow.”

Reese’s breath rustled over the line. “Good. Good, but…is she…okay?”

The waves crashed into her again. This time, Skye didn’t stumble. She stood strong. “She’s not going to break.”  Because he wouldn’t let her.

I need her too much.

“Make sure the guards are in place,” Trace directed. Because he wouldn’t be taking any chances.

“They’re ready and waiting.”

Good.  Trace ended the call. He tossed his phone onto the hammock near the edge of the balcony, then he hurried down the wooden steps that would take him to the beach and to her. 

She didn’t turn at his approach. Trace wasn’t even sure that Skye could hear him, not over the rough pounding of the surf.

Her long, dark hair trailed over her back.  Her hands were lifted up, as if she’d touch the waves. Her body was delicate, lithe, a true dancer’s body, but she’d become too fragile since her abduction.

“Skye.”

She didn’t look back.

He followed her into the surf, not caring that his jeans got soaked, but he did say, “Baby, you’re getting your robe wet, you—”

She glanced over her shoulder at him.

The moonlight fell on her face.  Her high cheekbones. The gentle curve of her jaw. The straight line of her nose.

Her fuck-me lips.

The woman had a mouth that always made him think of sin.  A mouth that made him need.

Her stare held his. It was too dark for him to see the green color of her eyes or to read any emotion in her gaze.

“We’re going home, aren’t we?”  Skye asked.

Home. Back to Chicago.  He nodded.

“Then let’s go out in style,” she said, and she slipped off the robe.

“Skye—”

She tossed the robe toward him.  He caught it, his hands flying up in a reflexive action.

Skye’s laughter teased his ears. He loved that sound. Happy.  Free. She hadn’t sounded that way in so long.

His fingers fisted in the robe.

Naked now, Skye dove into the waves.

He tossed the robe onto the beach behind him.

“Come and get me…” Her words taunted him when she broke through the surface of the water.

That was exactly what he planned to do.

Trace stalked into the water.

She won’t break.
 

Her laughter reached him once more, banishing the chill that had crept over him when he’d awoken to the sound of her screams.

Skye was stronger than most people realized.

Her arms reached for him.

He held her tight and knew that he couldn’t let her go. 

***

Ben Sharpe hunched his shoulders as he turned and hurried into the alley.

He knew he was being followed. He’d known for a while now.

Death was coming. Stalking him with slow, certain steps.

He had a debt to repay before he died. His father had always taught him that a man had to pay his debts.

One way or another.

He owed Trace Weston. He’d pay him.

Warn him.

The faintest shuffle of a footstep reached Ben’s ears.  His gaze flew to the mouth of the alley.

Death had been after him for years now.

After him. After Trace.

You could only run for so long.

The faint shuffle came again.

Before the past catches you…

His fingers curled around the knife that he always kept close. Death wasn’t going to have an easy time taking him.

He planned to fight for every moment that he had left.

And if he had to, he’d kill to keep living. 

He knew how to kill. He was good at it.

Thanks to Weston.

And I’ll repay that debt…

Even if it was the last fucking thing he did. 

The limo pulled to a slow stop in front of the Chicago high-rise. The building stretched so far up that it seemed to blend with the clouds.

Skye glanced at Trace.  “You just assumed we’d be going back to your place?”

He put down the papers he’d been reading. Some thick manila file.  His gaze locked on her. “I want you to move in with me.”

She tried to keep her face expressionless. “And
this
is how you ask me? We were on a white sand beach for days, and you couldn’t find some nice, romantic moment there to—”

“I suck at romance, Skye.” He heaved out a hard breath and reached for her hand. His fingers smoothed over the big, gleaming diamond that she wore on her left hand.
His ring.

He’d asked her to marry him after he’d saved her from Mitch.  He’d never said they would move in together
before
they got married.

“Skye, look, we probably only have ten seconds before Reese opens that door and—”

They had less than five seconds. There was a soft click of sound, and Reese opened the door. 

“His timing is shit,” Trace muttered, sounding disgusted.

Skye climbed from the car.  Reese was frowning at her, more than a hint of concern on his face.  Reese’s face was just as hard as Trace’s—maybe even harder. All angles and rough planes. Reese’s hair was cut brutally short, and his dark eyes glinted.  “Is there a problem?”

Skye looked up at the high-rise once more. Trace’s penthouse waited all the way at the very top. 

He’d sure come a long way in the last ten years. Once, they’d both barely had enough money for food. For clothes.

Now, it seemed that Trace could buy the whole world.

Is he trying to buy me?
Sometimes she wondered if that could be the case. She was highly conscious of the weight of her ring around her finger.

“Have the doorman get the bags, Reese,” Trace directed as he exited the vehicle. 

But Skye put her hand out, stopping Reese. “Not yet.” Because their living arrangements weren’t settled. She straightened her shoulders. There was something about this city that got to Skye. Chicago was home for her.  The noise. The people. The activity.

She was starting to feel stronger already. 

“Skye…”

She turned to face Trace. “Why?”

He blinked at her. “Why what?”

Skye sighed. “Why do you want me to move in with you?”

“Aw, hell,” she heard Reese mutter as the faint Alabama drawl in his voice deepened. “He’s right. Shit for timing…” He edged back.

Trace growled.

Skye didn’t move. 

“Here?” Trace demanded as his brows shot up. “Now?
This
is where you want us to talk?”

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.