His eyes narrowed as he saw a man rushing away from the runway. “Uh, excuse me, sir…” Alex called out.

The man, older, balding, frowned at him. He wore one of the light blue uniforms typical of the ground crew.

“Were you just working on Trace Weston’s plane?” Alex asked, as he kept his badge out.

The fellow glanced at the badge, then back at Alex’s face. “Mr. Weston doesn’t have any trouble with me. I do my job, I—”

“I never said you didn’t,” Alex soothed. “I was just curious…”

And he had been curious. He’d pulled up at Skye’s studio just in time to see her climb into Weston’s car. So he’d followed them, and he’d watched them fly right out of the city.

Strange. An attack one day. A vacation the next?

“Where was Mr. Weston heading?” Alex asked as he cocked his head.

The guy glanced over his shoulder. “I-I think he was going to New York again.”

Where Skye Sullivan had lived for so long. “Does he go to New York often?” He could, for business, or for—

“Yeah, he goes there a lot. At least once each week.” The man tried to brush by him.

Alex just shifted and blocked his path. “Guys on the ground can sometimes hear stories.” And pick up a lot of gossip. “You hear any stories about why Weston visited New York? In the past? Tonight?”

The man smiled, revealing a crooked front tooth. “I don’t care why he flies. It just matters that he does. Gives me a job.”

Right. This info wasn’t helping him.

The guy walked away. Alex glanced up at the sky. Light raindrops were still falling down. He couldn’t see the plane any longer.

Maybe Weston had been taking all those trips to the Big Apple strictly for business.

Or maybe…maybe he’d been heading to New York for another reason.

Alex had pulled Skye’s accident report. He’d read her statement about someone following her. Forcing her off the road.

The more he probed, the more he worried.

Skye Sullivan was in danger. He just hoped she wasn’t putting her trust in the wrong person.

A mistake like that could prove fatal for her.

***

Trace kept his hand curved around Skye as they headed through the hotel’s lobby. The marble floor gleamed up at him as the concierge quickly escorted them to the private elevator.

Skye wasn’t speaking. She was barely making eye contact with him, and he hated that.

He missed how they used to be.

I’ll have that again.

He’d have everything again.

The elevator doors closed, and the ascent began. The elevator slid up, higher and higher.

“Uh, Mr. Weston?” The concierge—Max—cleared his throat. “Is there anything that you’ll be needing tonight?”

Trace didn’t even try to take his eyes off Skye. She’d slept on the plane. He’d been too wired to even consider dozing off. “I have everything I need.” His voice rumbled.

Skye’s gaze cut to his.

The elevator’s doors opened.

Max scrambled outside. “Y-your suite is waiting, sir. Of course, it’s our plaza suite, just as you always request when you visit to see the—”

“I know the suite,” Trace cut through his words before Max could say anymore. The fellow was damn chatty tonight.

Max hurriedly opened the suite room door. Skye strode inside. Her head tilted back as she looked up at the massive chandelier that waited in the great room.

“You…um…are you sure you don’t want the personal chef to come up?” Max lingered near the door as the bellhop brought in their luggage. “It’s late, but never too late for you, Mr. Weston—”

He knew that the personal chef came with the suite. Trace just didn’t want the guy up there at that moment. He wanted to be alone with Skye. “Send him up for breakfast,” Trace said. His gaze narrowed on the bellhop. “All the bags go in the master bedroom.”

Skye had paused at the windows that overlooked Fifth Avenue. It seemed her shoulders tensed.

She’d heard his order about the bags.

But she wasn’t arguing.

Yet.

The bellhop and the concierge left a few minutes later. The door eased shut behind them.

Skye kept staring down at the city below. “Sometimes, I forget what New York is like…”

Snow fell lightly past the window. They’d flown out of rain in Chicago and right into a late snowfall in New York.

Her hand lifted and touched the pane of glass. “When I was a kid, New York was everything to me. The people here…they were happy. Famous. Everyone loved them.”

When she’d been a kid, she’d bounced from foster home to foster home.

She’d found dancing thanks to a social worker who’d wanted her to have an outlet. That outlet had been at a small, community center. Skye had once told him how nervous she’d been the first day she walked into that center.

She’d been nervous, until she danced.

Skye turned away from the window. “The suite, Trace?” She cleared her throat. “There are only two of us. Do you really think we need…what is this?” She glanced around with pursed lips. “I’m guessing…four thousand square feet?”

“Forty-five hundred.” He pulled off his coat. Tossed it aside. Went to her.

“Any room would have worked. Any—”

His hand cupped her chin. “When I was a kid, I dreamed of not being hungry.” She would know this. Far better than anyone else. “I dreamed of not wearing someone else’s used clothes. Of not being the one mocked because my shoes had holes in them.” His parents hadn’t died like Skye’s. His parents just hadn’t given a shit.

They’d forgotten him most days. Left him to feed and clothe himself.

The day the social workers had come for him…how long had I been without food then?

His old man loved to use his fist. His mother…she loved to use her bottles. She’d drowned out reality and hadn’t cared when her son cried.

“I pulled myself out of the past,” he told Skye, making sure he kept his hold gentle. With her, he tried for gentleness. Only for her. “These days, I can afford any damn thing I want.”

“What you want…”

His fingers drifted down her throat. She had such a sensitive neck. Once upon a time, he’d kissed her there, and she’d melted for him. “What I want is you.” Being near her drove him fucking insane. Having her scent—sweet vanilla—wrap around him. Having her silken skin beneath his fingers.

She wasn’t telling him no. Wasn’t pushing him away. Instead, she stared up at him with need in her green gaze. “I thought…I thought we came here to figure out who was after me.” Her words were a whisper.

“We did.” But it was nearing 3 a.m. New York might be the city that never slept, but they still couldn’t go pounding on doors right then. Better to wait. Head out in the morning.

Waiting left them with the night.

His fingers eased under the heavy curtain of her hair. Her breath caught on a little rasp that was the sexiest sound he’d heard in years.

“Tell me you haven’t thought about us.” Even though she’d been with others. Fucking bastards. When she’d told him their names, everything had gone red for him. Other men, touching her. He wanted to wipe the memory of their hands away.

Trace wanted her to only think of him.

Before the night was over, she would.

“I won’t lie.” The snow fell lightly behind her. “I’ve thought about you more times than I can count.”

Good. Because every damn night when he closed his eyes, she was the one in his dreams.

Her hand rose. Curled around his wrist. “And I think about the way you told me…to get the hell out of your life.”

Trace didn’t let his expression alter.

“You stopped wanting me, Trace, not the other way around.” She yanked his hand away from her. Marched around him. “Since you got the bell hop to leave my bags in the master bedroom, I’ll take that room.” She wasn’t looking back at him. “With forty-five hundred square feet, I’m sure you can find some other place to crash.”

Every muscle in his body locked down. “I never stopped.” His control seemed razor thin right then, and that was dangerous. He’d intended a seduction for her.

The wild hunger he’d held in check wasn’t supposed to break free.

Not yet.

Her laugh was bitter. Not like Skye at all. “Right. That’s why you came after me, huh? Why I’ve seen you pictured with dozens of women over the years? Because you wanted…”She glared over her shoulder, “me so much.”

Maybe he wasn’t the only one eaten by jealousy. Maybe there was some hope for them after all.

“Want me to prove how much I want you?” Nothing could have kept him away from her in that moment. He’d talked to her doctor before he left Chicago. Skye was safe. The concussion wasn’t an issue. She could sleep.

She could fuck.

She was most definitely about to get fucked.

Skye rounded on him. “That isn’t—”

He kissed her. There was simply no holding back. He’d waited until they were alone. Waited until he had her in the suite with him.

Waited…waited ten long years.

There was no more waiting.

Unless Skye told him no, unless she didn’t want him, he would have her.

Chapter Four

She should push him away. Skye knew her hands should lift and shove against Trace’s chest. Those traitorous hands shouldn’t be lifting and curving around his shoulders.

She needed to push him away.

Not pull him closer.

But she wanted him closer.

She. Wanted. Him.

Her emotions were too raw. Maybe it was the city. Maybe it was Trace. Maybe she was just too scared and too tired of being alone.

But when his tongue thrust into her mouth, when she tasted his rich, masculine flavor, Skye stopped thinking about why it was wrong to be with him.

Right then, she wanted to be wrong.

His mouth was strong and fierce on hers. Searching for a response that she was eager to give. Trace was a great kisser, one who’d just gotten better with age. His lips and his tongue played her perfectly.

And his hands…

His hands stroked down her body. His fingers curled around her hips—then he lifted her up.

Skye gasped because she hadn’t been expecting that move, even though she knew how strong he was. Her gasp let him deepen the kiss, and he took two steps and pinned her against the wall.

Her legs locked around his hips. His arousal pressed against her core. Long and hard and thick.

Their clothes were in the way.

Skin to skin. She needed to be that way with him. Needed desperately to be that way.

Her hips arched toward him.

His mouth pulled from hers. Trace began to kiss his way down her neck. Right there. Yes, yes, right there. Where her neck curved into her shoulder. She loved it when he kissed her—

“You won’t forget me,” his words were growled against her overheated flesh. “But you will forget them.”

He was carrying her again. Down the hallway. Another chandelier glittered overhead. They turned, and he took her into the bedroom.

The big bed took up half of the massive space. The curtains were pulled back. The snow was still falling. Beautiful snow, covering the world in a blanket of white.

He lowered her onto the bed.

She thought he’d follow her. That he’d put his body against hers and crush her into the mattress. She wanted wild passion. Wanted to feel the surge of pleasure that would banish her fear and the past.

But he just stared down at her. “You’re even more fucking beautiful now.”

She couldn’t be. She had on old leggings. A sweatshirt. Her hair was a tangle around her head and—

He started with her shoes. Tossed them aside. Tossed aside the leggings and the sweatshirt. Trace stripped her with deft hands, hands that must have undressed plenty of women.

Jealousy bit into her. Don’t go there, don’t.

Soon she was clad only in the slip of her black bra and her matching panties. She was spread on the bed. He still stood above her.

His gaze traveled slowly, so very slowly, over her body. His jaw hardened when his gaze landed on her bra—her breasts. “So perfect.”

No, she was too small there, she was—

His bright stare drifted over the plane of her belly. Down to the flare of her hips.

Trace licked his lips.

She imagined him licking her.

But…but his gaze didn’t stay. Down, down it went, and some of her passion began to fade.

My leg. I don’t want him looking at my leg.

She didn’t want Trace to see the tangled mass of scars that still covered her calf. The scars that would always cover the skin.

Why hadn’t she turned off the lights? She’d turned them off with Mitch, and she should have thought to turn them off with Trace.

“Don’t,” her voice sharpened as she tried to reach for him.

Trace caught her hands. Pushed them back against the mattress. Fully clothed, he came down on top of her. “Don’t what, baby? Don’t look at you?” His lips—open, hot, sexy—brushed over hers. “Don’t taste? Because that’s exactly what I plan to do. I’ll taste every inch of you.”

Don’t pity me. Those were the words she’d meant to say. But he wasn’t looking at her calf any longer. He was kissing her and holding her wrists prisoner.

She liked the friction of his clothes against her. Liked the feel of that strong, hard body over hers.