Angry tension seemed to roll off Trace’s body.
“I…can’t,” Skye said softly.
“How do you know?” Robert asked her, tilting his head as he studied her. “Unless you try?”
The knock pounded again. It was much more impatient this time. “Wolfe, they’re screwing up out here! We need you.”
He gave a curt nod to Skye and Trace, and Robert hurried away.
The door hung open behind him, just a few inches.
“Before we leave,” Trace spoke slowly, “I’ll talk to the stagehands here and see if anyone remembers something.”
She nodded. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?” If Trace had been here to question people sooner, to run his investigation, then perhaps more evidence, more clues could have been found.
Trace exhaled slowly. “I’ll find him. He’s not getting away.”
She hoped that he wasn’t. She started to slip by Trace.
He caught her arm. “You left New York without trying to dance again? You just ran from the city?”
Her throat had gone dry. “It took me weeks to walk again.” That was only after all of the surgeries. “And I did try.” That painful memory would never go away. “The first time I tried to dance, I fell on my face.” The first time, the second, the third. Her lashes lifted so that she could meet that bright blue stare. “Robert is the most demanding choreographer I’ve ever worked with. I knew what he would see if he watched me dance. I didn’t want to hear him say—”
You’ve lost it, love.
She could hear his words clearly in her mind.
“There are some things that you know on your own.” She’d had enough humiliation and pain by that point. Running had seemed like her best plan. Escape.
And she didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “I’ll go talk to some of the dancers.” Her words tumbled out quickly. “I’ll see if anyone remembers or—or maybe if anyone had something like this happen to them.” So she was grasping at straws. That room was too small. Too filled with memories, and Skye wanted to get out of there.
So she fled. After all, she might suck at walking sometimes, but when it came to running away, she had that one down cold.
***
The Brit was a bastard who touched Skye far too freely. Trace could still feel the jealousy coursing through him.
You came back to me.
The hell she had. Skye hadn’t turned to Wolfe when she needed protection.
She’d gone to Trace.
The dancers and the stagehands had been no help. They didn’t remember anything.
Or anyone.
Plenty of fans had come to see Skye, but their faces were a blur in everyone’s memories.
Useless.
So they’d left the dancers and the choreographer who watched Skye with far too much intensity. They’d moved to the second stop on their list.
He’d visited this place before. So many times, when Skye hadn’t even known he was there. I had to make sure she was all right.
“It’s been a while,” Skye murmured beside him as they strode down the hospital corridor. “And I can’t exactly say I’m happy to be back here.”
The scent of disinfectant filled his nose. Nurses bustled past him. A family walked down the corridor, carrying flowers and balloons in their hands.
Skye’s doctor was on duty that day. Trace had verified Dr. Mitch Loxley’s rotation schedule before heading to the hospital. He’d also had his men check to see if either Mitch Loxley or Robert Wolfe had taken any recent flights to Chicago.
They hadn’t.
But they could have driven over there. A thirteen-hour drive was doable.
He halted at the nurse’s station. “I need to see Dr. Loxley.”
The nurse glanced up. Her eyes widened a bit as she stared at Trace, then she smiled.
He’d gotten plenty of smiles like hers over the years. Flirtatious. Interested.
Only he wasn’t interested. Skye was at his side.
When he had her, he didn’t need anyone else.
“He’s on his rounds right now, but is there something I can help you with?” The nurse asked as she rose—and leaned forward, putting her hand on his arm. “I’ll be happy to help you, if you need assistance.”
What he needed was Loxley.
Another of Skye’s lovers.
Shit, but it had been hard not to drive his fist into Wolfe’s pretty-boy face. When the guy kept touching Skye, too much familiarity in that touch…I wanted to break his hand.
Only Trace wasn’t supposed to be that guy any longer. He was supposed to be the businessman. The success story.
Not the street fighter who wanted to tear into anyone who’d gotten too close to Skye.
“I’m afraid that only Dr. Loxley can help us,” he said, pulling Skye close to his side. She’d tensed up when they walked into the hospital. Not that he blamed her, not after what she’d been through. He wanted to question the doctor, then get the hell out of that place with her.
He’d prefer to get her back to the hotel. To get her naked in his bed again.
Once wasn’t nearly enough.
But he had to eliminate the threats around her first.
“When are you expecting Loxley back?” Trace asked the blonde nurse.
Then, speak of the damn devil, Loxley marched around the corner. The guy’s white lab coat swirled around him as he put a clipboard on the nurse’s station. “Marsha, make sure the low carb diet for Mr. Rodriguez continues for at least twenty-four more hours and…” He trailed off.
Because his gaze had lifted.
And locked on Skye.