Blood dripped into her eyes. Pain rolled through her body, and she tried to fight it, tried to break free, but she couldn’t.
The metal had twisted around her. It held her in a grip too tight and too hard, and every move she made just caused her to hurt even more.
She screamed for help, but no one was there to save her.
The rain poured down, pelting through the broken windshield. Her car had rolled, again and again, down the incline. Would anyone from the road even be able to see her?
“I’m here!” She screamed again.
Every part of her body hurt. Broken glass was all around her. The blood and rain mixed together on her face.
She begged for help until her voice broke.
Until the rain stopped.
Until the pain finally stopped.
There was nothing left, nothing but the darkness.
It was in that darkness that she heard his voice.
“I’m here…I’ve got you…”
And when she heard him, she was afraid.
Skye Sullivan stared up at the building before her. It shot high into the sky, its massive windows gleaming in the light. There were too many floors for her to count. Looking more like a fortress than an office, the place spoke of power.
And money. A lot of it.
“Miss?” The doorman eyed her with a hint of concern in his dark eyes.
Probably because she was standing in the middle of the street, gawking up at the place. Skye gave a quick shake of her head, pulled her coat a bit closer around her, and hurried inside that fortress. Getting out of that icy Chicago air was a relief for her.
Another man waited behind the gleaming desk in the lobby. She glanced to the left and the right, and Skye nervously noted the security cameras that followed her every move.
Cautiously now, she approached the desk. “I, um, I’m looking for Trace Weston.”
The man, in his early twenties and sporting a stylish blue suit, raised his brows at her. “Do you have an appointment?”
Not exactly. She’d barely gathered the courage to actually head into this place. Twice that morning, she’d turned around and almost gone back to her home.
I need him.
Skye straightened her shoulders. “No, I don’t have an appointment.”
His eyes narrowed.
She rushed on, saying, “My name is Skye Sullivan, and I-I’m an…old friend of his.” Okay, so that part that wasn’t exactly the truth.
But she was desperate. No, more than that. She was scared.
When she’d done a search looking for private detectives in the area, Weston Securities had immediately popped up on her computer screen. As soon as she’d seen the name, Skye’s whole body had tensed.
Trace Weston. Some men left a mark on a woman, a mark that went far beneath the skin.
Trace had marked her years before.
His company was way out of her price range, Skye got that. The lobby even smelled expensive. And, after the accident, pretty much everything was out of her range, but she didn’t have a choice.
She had to get Trace to help her.
Besides, they had been friends once.
Before they’d been lovers. Before everything had gone to hell.
The guy in the fancy suit looked down at his computer. “I don’t think you understand just how busy Mr. Weston’s schedule is, ma’am. If you’d like to speak with one of the junior associates here, I’m sure that we can find someone available.”
Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. A junior associate. Right. Well, that was certainly better than nothing.
The phone on the man’s desk rang. “Excuse me,” he murmured as he reached for the phone.
Skye nodded. Her cheeks were burning. Had she really thought that she could get Trace to help her? That she could just walk into this place and he’d be there for her? After all the time that had passed, she’d be lucky if the guy even remembered her.
If only I could have forgotten him.
“Y-yes, sir. Right now.” A sharp note of nervousness had entered the man’s voice.
Skye glanced back at him as he hurriedly put the phone down. His eyes, a warm gray, had come back to her. Now there was some definite curiosity in his stare. “You’re to go right up, Ms. Sullivan.” He pushed a clipboard toward her. “Sign in first, then I’ll take you to the elevator.”
Her gaze slid to the nearest security camera. Tension tightened her shoulders as she scribbled her name across the page. Then Skye hurried toward the elevators on the right. Don’t limp. Don’t. Take slow steps. Nice and slow.
“Not that elevator.” He caught her elbow and steered her to the left. “This one.” He pulled a keycard from his pocket. Swiped it across the elevator’s panel. The doors opened almost instantly, and he guided Skye inside. “Go up to the top floor. Mr. Weston will be waiting for you.”
But Mr. Weston hadn’t even known she was coming to the building. “I don’t understand—” Skye began.
The doors slid closed.
Her hands trembled as the elevator shot up. The elevator’s walls were made of glass and she turned, glancing out at the view of the city.
A lot could change for a person in ten years. You could go from having absolutely nothing…to having everything.
Or you could go from everything…to nothing.
The elevator slowed. Skye turned back toward the doors. She took a deep breath. Then those doors slid open.
Her shoes sank into lush carpet as she stepped out of the elevator.
She glanced over at the pretty blonde woman who’d rushed toward her.
The blonde smiled. “This way, please.”
Trace had seen her on the video cameras. That was the only explanation. He’d seen her, and he’d actually remembered her.
Well, you were always supposed to remember your first, weren’t you?
He’d been her first. Once upon a time, he’d been her everything.
The blonde opened a gleaming, mahogany door. “Ms. Sullivan is here, sir.”
Don’t limp. Skye stepped inside the office and saw him.
The man who’d haunted her.
The man who’d taught her about lust and loss.
He sat behind a massive desk. He’d leaned back in his chair, and his head was tilted to the right as his eyes—still the bluest that she’d ever seen—swept over her body. His hair was midnight black, cut to perfectly frame the strong planes of his face.
Handsome wasn’t a word that could be used to describe Trace. It never had been. Sexy. Dangerous. Those were words for him.
The door shut behind Skye, sealing her inside the office with him.
Trace rose from his seat. He came toward her, his stride slow and certain. With every step that he took, she tensed, her body helpless to do otherwise.
“H-hello, Trace.” She hated that stupid break in her voice. Trace made her nervous. Always had.
He stopped in front of her. He stood at several inches over six feet, while she barely skimmed five feet three. Skye tilted her head back so that she could meet his stare.
“It’s been a long time,” Trace said, the words a deep, dark rumble. His voice went perfectly with the rock hard body and the sexy face—a voice that a woman could imagine in the darkness.
She swallowed because her throat was suddenly dry. “Yes, it has.” Ten years and three months. Not that she’d counted.
That assessing gaze of his slid down her body once more. There was an awareness in his stare that she hadn’t expected. A heat that made her remember too many things.
He was close enough to touch. Close enough for her to smell the crisp, masculine scent that clung to him.
His nostrils flared, as if he were catching her scent, too.
“You look good, Skye.” Again, that heat was in his stare. A heat that said he knew her intimately.
She wished her heartbeat would slow down.
“But you’re not here for a friendly chat, are you?” And he stepped away from her. He waved to the open chair near his desk and returned to his seat.
“We’ve never really been the friendly chat kind,” she said softly as she eased into the leather chair.
She didn’t take off her coat. She just pulled it closer to her.
A faint furrow appeared between his brows. “No, we weren’t, were we? More the hot sex type.”
Her lips parted. He had not just said that to her.
His faint smile said that he had.
“I’m not here for that, either.” She’d been wrecked after her last go round with Trace.
He leaned back in his chair. The leather groaned beneath him. “We’ll get to that…”
Uh, no, they wouldn’t. She wasn’t ready to feel that burn again.
He tapped his chin. “You’re not here for pleasantries, you’re not here for sex, then why have you come looking for me?”
This was where she’d have to beg. Because there was no way she had enough money in her account to cover his services. Not with the guy sporting this high rise building and looking like he’d just walked off the cover of GQ. How things have changed. “Someone is watching me.”
He stilled. The heat banked in his eyes as his whole expression instantly became guarded. “And what makes you so sure of that?”
“Because I can feel him.” Wait, that sounded crazy, didn’t it? When she’d gone to the cops, they’d sure looked at her as if she were crazy. You couldn’t feel a stalker. So they said.
Trace wasn’t speaking.
So she did the talking, saying quickly, “I know someone has been watching me, okay? When I go to my studio, when I go out at night…” A tenseness would slip over her. An awareness that was instinctive.
“You think someone is following you.”
He wasn’t believing her any more than the cops had. “I think,” she stressed the word back to him as her hands clenched, “that someone has been in my house. Things are rearranged. They aren’t where I put them. My doors are locked but someone has been getting in.”
Now he leaned forward. “What’s been rearranged?”
His piercing stare stayed on her face.
“Underwear,” she whispered. “Some panties are missing. Some…some are left on my bed.”
Yes, that was exactly how she felt. “Cops aren’t buying my feelings. They don’t see any signs of a break-in at my apartment. And they think I just lost my laundry.”
But she knew something else was happening.
She licked too dry lips. “This…this isn’t the first time this has happened.”
His hands had flattened on his desk.
“When I was in New York…” That seemed like a life-time away. “The same thing was happening before my accident. Someone would get into my apartment.” At first, the whole thing had started harmlessly enough. Just with flowers. “He started by leaving flowers in my dressing room.” She’d gone into her dressing room after a performance and found them waiting for her. No note. Just the flowers.
Trace waited for her to continue.
Her chest ached as she said, “The next time I found the flowers, they were in my apartment. My locked apartment.”
A muscle flexed along his jaw. “And you’re sure the flowers weren’t just a gift from a lover?”
“I don’t have a lover.” She shook her head. “Not then. Not now.”
What she had was someone who was terrifying her. A shadow that seemed to follow her wherever she went. “I came here because I was hoping that one of your agents might be able to help me. That you could assign someone to follow-up and just see what’s happening.”
His gaze seemed to bore into her. She’d always felt like Trace saw too deeply when he looked at her.