Mine to Take (Mine 1)

The fellow looked at Skye Sullivan as if the woman were his, when Skye had sure been singing a different story when he’d questioned her about any relationships she might have in the city.

“I heard about the attack on Ms. Sullivan,” his partner said as he came toward him. Joe Harris had been a cop for twenty years. He’d seen plenty of hell on the beat during those years. His grizzled face reflected his worry. “Shit, I was sure hoping things wouldn’t get that bad.”

Because their hands had been tied. The woman’s feelings— her gut instincts—those hadn’t been enough for them to go on. And whoever had been accessing her apartment had slipped in and out without leaving any trace behind.

Except for the small signs meant to torment Skye.

Alex stared up at Joe. Light glinted off the top of his partner’s shaved head. “She’s got security now. Weston Securities.”

Joe whistled. “How much is she paying for that set-up?”

The woman’s bank account was empty, so she couldn’t be paying anything.

So maybe I’ve checked a little deeper into Skye’s life than my partner realizes.

But…

When Skye Sullivan had talked to him, she’d been afraid. He hated to see fear in a woman’s eyes.

“I don’t think she is paying him,” Alex muttered as he leaned forward and went back to typing on his keyboard. “Seems she and Trace Weston are old friends.”

Bullshit. They were ex-lovers. He knew exactly what they’d been.

“I don’t trust him,” Alex said flatly. Skye had just looked so breakable at the hospital, while Trace had been too eager to get her out of there. And away from me.

“Be careful with him,” Joe warned him. “That’s not a man you want for an enemy. Hell, if he wanted, Weston could probably have your badge—and mine—with one phone call.”

Alex wasn’t scared of Trace Weston.

But he was determined to uncover his secrets.

Chapter Three

“Tell me what happened in New York.”

Skye glanced over at Trace. They were in his kitchen—a giant monstrosity that seemed to swallow them both. His cook—he had a personal chef!—had made them breakfast, and she’d never tasted pancakes so perfectly fluffy in her life.

Sure, at her peak in New York, she’d been able to afford some of the finer things, but she was sure realizing that Trace had flown way out of her league.

The boy she’d remembered was long gone.

She wasn’t sure if she knew the man before her at all.

“Skye…”

She gulped some more orange juice. In the bright light of day, she could almost pretend that the nightmare from last night hadn’t actually happened.

Almost. The ache in her head confirmed that it had been a very scary reality.

“I was in an accident,” she said carefully. The chef had bustled into the other room. “My car went off the road. I was—I was trapped.” Rain. Fear. Pain.

“For twelve hours.”

Those words had her gaze jerking to his. “Y-yes. I was pinned in the car for twelve hours.” The story had been splashed all over the news. The prima ballerina who’d lost everything in a tragic accident.

Only it hadn’t been an accident. She was sure of that.

His jaw clenched. “There’s more you aren’t telling me. More than what was in the papers.”

He hadn’t pushed her last night. He’d held her in his arms, talked softly to her, and made absolutely certain that she stayed awake.

Now he was back to grilling her.

“You think the man was stalking you in New York…” Trace began, frowning.

“I-I believed he was, yes. Someone was getting into my dressing room.” Tell him. Tell him. “And I thought…the night of my accident, I thought I was being followed.”

Very slowly, he put down his knife. His blue eyes glittered at her. “You’re just telling me this…now?”

“Back in New York, I told the cops. The doctors. No one believed me.”

“I believe you.”

She pushed away her food. “I don’t remember everything about that night. I was driving away from the city. I was—” Thinking about the past. She cleared her throat. “I’d just left a gas station. There was a car…it seemed to follow my every turn…” The fear was easy enough to recall. “The other car’s headlights were in my mirror. Flashing on and off, low beams, then high.” Blinding her.

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 fucking 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.”