Mine to Take

He caught her arm and pulled her right back against him. “We’ll take my car.” He’d already called for his driver. The sleek, black ride was waiting to the right. The driver—who doubled as one of Trace’s guards—held the back door open for them.



“We’ll be heading to Skye’s apartment,” Trace murmured to Reese Stokes.



Skye hesitated, then quickly rattled off the address.



Reese nodded. Reese had been with Trace for over five years now, and Trace trusted the man implicitly.



Skye slid into the vehicle first, and when she did, her skirt lifted, revealing a silken expanse of leg covered in nylon.



Once upon a time, Skye had enjoyed wearing thigh-highs. He’d bought them for her. Because he’d loved the feel of them against her skin.



She disappeared into the car.



Eyes narrowing, memories swirling through his mind, Trace followed her. The door shut, sealing them inside. The privacy shield was already in place, completely blocking them from Reese’s scrutiny.



The car pulled away from the curb.



“I thought one of your agents would handle this. I mean, you’re the boss.” Her words came a little too quickly. She’d always done that. Spoken fast when she was nervous.



It’s good that I still make her nervous.



“I’m sure you don’t have time to spend on me.”



On the contrary. He slid back into the seat next to her, making sure that their shoulders brushed. “You’re not going back to New York.”



Her head jerked toward him. Her eyes—deep, dark green—met his. There was gold in her eyes, buried in the green. When she was aroused, the gold burned hotter.



And when she was aroused, her cheeks flushed, her fuck-me lips trembled, and a moan would slip from her lips.



Skye Sullivan. Porcelain perfect. So delicate that he’d once worried his passion might bruise her.



He still worried because the things he wanted from her…



I’m not a boy any longer.



He’d already held back with her for too long.



Her dark hair fell down her shoulders, long and silken. When she danced, she kept her hair pinned up, making her cheekbones look even sharper.



When she danced…



She made him ache.



“There’s nothing for me in New York any longer.” Her voice was stilted. Not Skye. Skye spoke with humor and life. But when she’d come into his office, finally come back to him, there had been fear in her voice—and in her eyes. “I was in an…accident.”



“I know.” The story had been all over the news. The prima ballerina who’d been trapped in the wreckage of her car on a storm filled night. She’d danced for thousands, she’d lit up the stages in New York.



And she’d barely survived that crash.



He forced air into his lungs. Don’t think about it. She’s here.



“I’ve had physical therapy on my leg.” Said with grim pride as her chin—slightly pointed—came into the air. “I can dance, just not like…not like before.” She gave a little shake of her head. “The stage won’t be for me any longer.”



“That’s why you came home?”



Home. The only home he’d ever had—it had been with her.



Two foster kids. Tossed through the system again and again. He’d met her when he was seventeen. She’d been fifteen.



“That’s why I came back to Chicago,” she agreed, voice husky. “I’m saving money to open a studio. I’ll teach here. I can still do that.”



Her dancing had gotten her out of poverty. Into the bright lights of studios and stages in New York. Her dancing had given her a new life.



And taken her from his.



“The money is a problem.” She wasn’t looking at him anymore. He wanted her eyes on his.



He leaned toward her. Caught her hand.



That made her gaze fly right back to his. “I’ll find a way to pay you,” she told him. “I can do it, just give me some time.”



His going rate—for his newest junior agents, not for his personal services because he didn’t go into the field any longer—was three hundred an hour. “We’ll work it out.”



He had plenty of plans for her.



His fingers threaded through hers. His hand swallowed hers. His skin was rough and dark, tanned from the time he spent in the sun. Her hand was pale, almost fragile. So very breakable.



Hadn’t he always thought that about her? From the first moment he’d seen her, when he’d rushed into that room, hearing her scared cries…



Don’t, please don’t!



She’d been his to save then.



His.



“What are you thinking about?” Skye whispered.



“The way it used to be.”



Her lashes were long. Her dark green eyes were so sexy. Her breath slipped out a little too quickly. “I wasn’t sure you’d even remember me.”



Only every damn minute. There were some things a man could never forget.



“You should have come to me sooner.” He hated to think of her out there, afraid.



Alone.



“The last time we spoke,” her voice seemed to stroke right over him, “you told me to get the hell out of your life. Coming back wasn’t easy.”



The car slowed.



His jaw had locked. You’re not getting away so easily this time.



“I think we’re here,” she said and tugged on her hand.



He didn’t release her. “You said you didn’t have a lover.” Good. He didn’t want to think of her with some other bastard.



Her gaze held his.



“You will, Skye.”



She shook her head. “Trace…”



His name was a husky murmur from her. Denial and need all tied together.



Her lips were too close. She smelled too good. Sweet vanilla. Good enough to damn well eat.



He took her mouth. Not gently. Not softly. Because he’d never been that kind of guy. Trace knew he wasn’t the tender lover type.



He’d fought for every single thing that he had. He’d keep fighting.



His tongue thrust into her mouth. She tasted even sweeter than she smelled. Her lips were soft and lush, and she was kissing him back. A low moan rose in her throat, and her tongue slid lightly against his.



He’d been the one to teach her how to kiss.



And to fuck.



He deepened the kiss, needing more, so much more from her than he could get right then. She’d come to him because she was afraid, but he wasn’t interested in her fear. He wanted her passion. He wanted her.



She pulled back. Her lips were wet and red from his mouth.



His addiction. The one that he’d never been able to ditch.



No matter how much money he got, no matter how many women came into his bed, Skye was the one he wanted, the one that he would have.



There was a price for everything in this world. He knew that lesson well.



Skye would pay a price.



So would he.



It was a good thing he could afford that price this time.



She nearly jumped from the car when he let her go. He exited slowly, far too aware of the ache for her—and of the arousal that wasn’t going away.



Sunlight glinted down on him. Early spring, but still cold because that was the way of his city. He ignored the chill and stared up at the apartment complex. Older, in a more rundown area just outside of the city.



When she’d been in New York, her place had been so much bigger—so close to the lights of Broadway.



The hospital bills had taken a lot of her money. He knew that. He knew so much more than she realized.



“Stay here,” he told Reese and then Trace followed Skye to the building. Security at her apartment was non-existent. Anyone could walk right in…



And they did.



“I’m on the third floor,” Skye said.



The top floor.



“The elevator is getting fixed right now, so…” She turned for the stairs.



He didn’t move. “Can your leg handle that climb?”



Her shoulders snapped up. Ah, there it was. Her fierce pride. One of the things that had so drawn him to her. “Yes. I can handle it.” And she didn’t look back as she started on the stairs. But he noticed she clung a little too tightly to the banister.



He followed behind her, easily closing the distance that separated them, and he stayed one stair behind her, all the way up.



His gaze noted everything. The peeling paint on the walls. The lights that flickered. The lights that weren’t on at all.



Sonofabitch.



Then they were on the third floor. There were three other doors on that floor, but she took him to apartment 301. He stopped her before she could put her key in the lock. Trace bent, inspecting the old, golden lock. No scratch marks to indicate that someone had tried to pick it. There were no signs of tampering at all.



He eased back. She unlocked the door. It opened with a groan of sound, the hinges ancient and obviously in need of oil. Skye hurried inside, stumbling just a little, before she flipped on the lights.



The apartment was small but so very Skye. Bright colors lit the walls, comfortable furniture filled the interior. The curtains were pulled back near the windows, letting the light spill inside.



The place smelled of her.



He advanced toward the windows. The fire escape led all the way up to her floor. The windows were locked there, and, again, he didn’t see any sign of tampering.



“I know what you’re doing.” She stood a few feet behind him. “The detective—Griffin—didn’t find any sign of a break-in, either. But I’m telling you, someone has been here.”



“Did I say that I didn’t believe you?” He glanced back at her.



Skye shook her head.



“Take me to your bedroom.”



She rocked back a step.



“That’s where he goes, doesn’t he?” Trace didn’t let any emotion enter his voice. Now wasn’t the time for emotion.



Skye spun away and walked down the narrow hallway. She opened another door. “It’s…here.”



He brushed past her and stepped inside the small room. The bed was wooden, an old four-poster. A chest of drawers—one that had been painted a bright blue—waited to the left. A matching dresser stood to the right.



Nothing looked disturbed in her room. “When is the last time you think he was here?”



“Last night,” she said as her gaze went to the bed. “When I came home last night, my—my underwear was left on the bed.”



He stared at the bed.



“I didn’t leave them there,” she continued, voice tight. “I know I didn’t. Someone is playing some kind of game with me.”



“I don’t think it’s a game.” Trace glanced away from the bed and back at her. Skye hadn’t moved away from the door. “I think someone is stalking you.” He paused. “Someone like this can be very, very dangerous.”



Her eyes were on his.



“To break into your home, to follow you…” He lifted his hand and brushed back the hair that had slipped over her shoulder. “It sounds like the guy is fixated on you.”



“You’ll find him, though?”



“I will. My agents will watch your place. No one will get in here again.”



Her breath whispered out. “Thank you.”



“I’ll get better locks on your doors and windows.” He’d do a hell of a lot more than that. “You’ll be safe here.”



She nodded quickly.



“You’d be safer…” He had to say it. “If you came back home with me.”



Her eyes widened. “Trace…”



“It’s not like it would be the first time, Skye.”



She retreated. Her back hit the door frame. “No. I didn’t come to you…for that.”



That. The storm of lust and need and want that had consumed them before.



The uncontrolled desire had almost destroyed them both.



“I need your help, Trace, but that’s all.”



It wasn’t all he wanted. But he’d give her this moment. Soon enough, she’d be coming to him.



I know her weaknesses.



Trace inclined his head. “Then I’ll get your protection started. It’s the least I can do for my old…friend.” Once more, his body brushed past hers. The tension rolled off her as he headed into the hallway.



“We were, once.”



Her voice halted him.



“We were friends before we were anything more.” Her words were soft, like a whispered confession.



Yes, they had been friends, but they’d lost that, long ago.



He pulled out his phone even as he headed for the front door. As soon as the front door closed, he demanded, “I want agents at Skye Sullivan’s apartment.” The address came from him as a curt bark. “New locks. A video camera and alarm inside.” She didn’t even have an alarm. “I want a team watching the place.” He remembered the way her hand had gripped the banister. “And I want the fucking elevator fixed.”



His orders would be obeyed. His staff jumped at his command. He wasn’t the abandoned, penniless kid anymore. He had the power now.



Trace glanced over his shoulder at Skye’s closed apartment door.



He had the power, and he was going to use it.



***



The dream came again. It snuck up on him when he was tired or when she got into his mind too much.



He found himself back in that old house. The one with the roof that sagged. With carpets that had been worn bare.



Another home. Another place.



His first night there.



“Don’t, please…”



The voice had called out to him.



He’d been on his feet before he’d thought twice. On his feet and on his way to her.