by Cynthia Eden
“The medical examiner says it was last night, sometime between midnight and two a.m.”
Trace had been gone after midnight.
“Now…see…that’s not really the question that I expected you to ask,” Alex said, and his gaze was right back on her. “Maybe something like…how did he die? But jumping straight to when…that’s not what most folks usually do. Unless, well, unless they’re trying to work out an alibi.” He paused a beat. “Are you doing that, Skye? Are you trying to work out some kind of alibi?”
“Of course she isn’t,” Trace snarled. His fingers caught hers. Twined with them. Squeezed lightly. “We appreciate you notifying us of Ben’s death, Detective Griffin.”
“Cut the bull,” Alex suddenly demanded. “You and I both know I’m not here for some kind of notification.” He advanced on Trace until the men stood toe-to-toe. “What the hell is going on here, man? Did you have something to do with the guy’s death?”
Skye sucked in a sharp breath. Trace glanced back at her. He stared into her eyes, then he lifted her hand. He brought it to his lips and lightly kissed her knuckles. Her ring caught the light, gleaming even brighter.
Trace was still looking at Skye when he said, “No. I had nothing to do with Ben’s death.”
She had the feeling he was trying to convince her of that fact, not Alex.
“Don’t you want to know how he died?” Alex pushed.
Trace kept his hold on Skye’s fingers, but he looked at Alex once more. “How did he die?” Trace asked.
“Someone carved him up with a knife.”
Skye flinched. Instinctively, she tried to jerk her hand away from Trace. He didn’t let her go.
“What the hell was the guy doing in that alley?” The question erupted from Alex. “Why was he—”
“Ben Sharpe was a very disturbed individual. He suffered from severe PTSD. He had hallucinations, delusions.” Trace’s voice was flat. “And I’d recently learned that he had stopped taking his medications. My card…” He exhaled on a hard breath. “He had my card because I wanted to help him, not because I was the man who took his life.”
It felt like her thundering heartbeat was shaking Skye’s entire chest.
The floor creaked behind her, and she turned to see Reese standing there, watching them.
“And Skye’s picture?” Alex asked as he glared suspiciously at Trace. “Why’d he have that?”
Trace’s fingers tightened on hers. “I’m afraid that Ben would need to be the one to tell you about that.”
She’s your mistake, and she’s going to destroy you.
Alex watched them in silence. It was the thick and hard and uncomfortable type of silence.
Finally, Alex said, “Let’s just get this out of the way. I’m going to assume you were both together last night? She can alibi you, Weston?”
“Yes,” Trace said. “I was home with my fiancé.”
The lie rolled so easily off his tongue.
But even as Trace said the words, Alex’s gaze was on Skye’s face.
Did I flinch? Did I show any sign that Trace just lied?
Alex inclined his head. “Then I guess that will be all…for now.” He stepped back. Paused. “It is good to see you again, Skye.” His gaze seemed to warm. “You scared the hell out of me in that hospital, and I’m damn glad you survived that bastard’s attack.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Trace motioned with his hand. Immediately, Reese advanced and escorted the detective back outside.
Skye waited a few seconds, making sure that both Reese and Alex were out of ear shot. Then she jerked free of Trace’s hand and rushed into the main studio. Her reflection stared back at her—eyes too wide, skin too pale.
“Skye…”
She turned to confront him. “What in the hell was that about?”
“Probably a robbery.” He shook his head. The faint lines near his eyes had deepened, making him appear grim. “Ben was in the wrong place and—”
“You lied to Alex.”
At her words, every bit of emotion vanished from Trace’s face. “What do you mean?”
“I woke up last night. You were gone. That’s what I mean.” And she was shaking. Nausea tightened her stomach. “Tell me you didn’t go after Ben. Tell me—”
He shot forward and grabbed her forearms. “I wanted to help him.”
She didn’t want to hear this. Hadn’t she just said for him to tell her that he didn’t—
“I found Ben. I tried to get him to come with me so that I could help him, but the guy refused. He ran away from me. He left, and I went back home, to you.”
She stared up at him.
“It was storming and the lightning lit up the bedroom.” His pupils expanded, swallowing some of the bright blue in his gaze. “You were wearing the diamonds and the black robe I bought for you.”
She’d fallen asleep in that robe, and she’d kept the diamonds on—for him.
“You were curled up in my bed, looking so sexy you made me ache. I climbed into that bed with you. I held you because I didn’t want you to have another nightmare. I wanted you to know that you were safe with me.” His voice thickened. “I was with you. When Ben was killed, I was with you.”
There was a raw edge to his voice. Almost a desperation, but there was still no emotion on Trace’s face. She searched his gaze and believed him. “Find out who killed him.” Trace could do it. His company, Weston Securities, had nearly limitless resources.
Trace had found her when she’d vanished.
He could find Ben Sharpe’s killer.
“I will,” he promised her, and he let her go.
Her heartbeat was starting to slow down. The ache in her chest had eased.
Trace glanced around the studio. “Are you pissed?”
What? She blinked. He was going to ask that now?
“We can change it.” He straightened his tie. Not that it needed straightening. “Anything that isn’t right, the designers can fix. I just wanted the place to be ready for you. A-a wedding present.” His lips thinned. “But Reese called me…said you were angry.”
“I’m not.” Not any longer. “I like my present.”
The tension eased from him. She could see it vanish.
“But next time,” Skye added, “ask first.”
He nodded.
He started to walk away. Skye wasn’t having that. She grabbed Trace and pushed him back against the mirror.
His gaze widened in surprise.
Ah, there it was. Real emotion.
She pressed up onto her toes and leaned into him. “I don’t want you lying to me.” Her voice was a whisper.
“Skye…”
“It’s you and me. Us. Forever. No secrets and no lies.”
His hands closed around her hips. Now he was the one holding her in place. “What happens when you don’t like my secrets?”
“How do you know what I’ll like?” Her voice had gone husky.
He was too controlled, even then. There was a wall between them, one that she was determined to break. Skye wanted it to shatter, just like the mirrors around her could shatter.
One hard punch—shatter.
“I know who you want me to be.” The words seemed torn from Trace. “Let me be that man.”
“I want you.” Good and bad and everything in between.
In her darkest moment, he’d been there for her.
Couldn’t he see that she wanted to be there for him?
“You have me,” Trace said. “Always.”
Then he moved, lightning fast. He spun them around, switching their positions so that she was the one penned against the cold pane of the mirror. And his mouth was on hers, crushing down.
Not with careful restraint. Not with studied passion. But with wild, driving lust. His mouth was hard. His kiss demanding. His tongue thrust into her mouth and took.
He wasn’t treating her like a delicate china doll—the way he’d been treating her since the attack. W
asn’t holding her carefully.
The fire was there, exploding between them. The fire that she needed and wanted so badly.
She’d been cold, until then.
Lost, until then.
He lifted her up, holding her easily and pressing her back even harder against the mirror’s surface. His tongue thrust into her mouth again. His arms and scent and body surrounded her.
She wanted him naked.
Wanted to take and take until they were both lost.
Wanted everything—
Then she heard it. The shattering of glass.
One hard punch—shatter.
Her eyes flew open even as Trace jerked her away from the mirror.
“Fuck! Skye!”
The mirror had shattered behind her. No, not behind her, but beneath Trace’s hand.
He’d hit the mirror? She hadn’t even realized—
His hands were running all over her now. “Where are you hurt?” A feverish intensity thickened the words. “I see the blood. Tell me where, baby, tell me-”
Skye caught his hands. “It’s not my blood. It’s yours.” She turned over his right hand, showing him the knuckles and the red slashes courtesy of the broken mirror.
He stilled. Stared down at the blood.
Skye licked her lips, and she tasted him. “They’re just scratches. We’ll go wash the blood off and get you cleaned up.” She tried to tug him toward the bathroom.
Trace didn’t move.
“I want you so much.”
His deep, growling words made her heart jump.
“Sometimes, I can’t control myself. I’m strong—too rough for you. If I’m not careful, I’ll break you, the same way I broke the mirror.”
Skye shook her head. “No!”
But he wasn’t listening. Trace had pulled away from her.
“I wanted you,” he said, but he wasn’t looking her in the eyes. “And I was about to take you. I was so rough I broke the damn mirror.” He stormed away.
She stood there, staring after him, aching.
He’s leaving.
“You broke the mirror, but you didn’t break me!” Skye called.
Trace stilled.
Okay. She sucked in a couple of deep breaths. “I’m not a mirror or a doll or anything—I’m a woman.” Your woman. “But you keep seeing me as a victim, and it has to stop.” The words were pulled from deep within her.
And they were true.
She was trying to heal.
He was still seeing her as the broken woman that he’d carried from the basement.
Shaking his head, Trace looked back at her. “That’s not true.”
Wasn’t it? “Then lose control with me. Stop holding it so tightly.” She stepped forward and the broken mirror crunched beneath her feet. Screw the mirror. “I don’t want the fancy tycoon. I don’t want the suave gentleman.” She’d seen him play those roles too easily. “I want the man beneath the mask you wear.”
A muscle flexed in Trace’s jaw. “Be careful what you wish for, baby.”
Another step. The mirror crunched again and—
He had her in his arms. “The mirror could cut through your shoes. You could get hurt.”
He was always protecting her.
Even from himself.
He put her down a few feet away. “I’ll send a crew over for repairs.”
She looked over at the mess. His blood had dripped onto some of the broken shards.
“Skye…”
She tilted her head back to study him.
“I know you’re not a fucking victim. I know…” He put his forehead to hers. “That you’re mine.”
***
Alex Griffin eased into his car. His gaze locked on the old fire station just across the street. Skye’s studio.
Reese Stokes stood outside, a guard who was watching Alex with an avid stare.
There was no sign of Skye or Weston.
Alex’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel.
Trace Weston was a very dangerous man. He was also a man used to being in total control—both of himself and of those around him.
When Weston had said that he had an alibi, that he’d been with Skye, those words had rolled so easily from the man’s mouth. His expression had been set. Seemingly open.
But Skye…her eyes had widened. A small movement, but one that Alex had caught because he’d been watching her so closely.
When it came to lying, Skye wasn’t as good as her lover.
In Alex’s experience, there was only one reason a man lied about an alibi.
Because the man was guilty as sin.
His gut had told him that Trace Weston was a threat, right from the very first moment that they’d met.
But Weston had saved Skye so he’d thought…
Screw what I thought.
He was going to keep following this case. He’d see where the evidence took him. And if he found out that Trace Weston was responsible for Ben Sharpe’s death, he would take the man down.
He didn’t care how much money Weston had.
Justice came to everyone, and the guilty—they paid.
Chapter Four
Trace stared down at the bandage on his right hand. Skye had insisted on bandaging him up. Hell, he guessed it was a good thing that he’d told his men to stock a first aid kit at the dance studio.
She’d carefully applied the bandages, her fingers so soft against his hand.
No one else had ever cared about him, not the way that Skye did. Hell, his mother had spent more time inside a bottle than out in the real world with him.
He’d bounced from foster home to foster home. He hadn’t felt any connection with anyone. He’d wondered if he could even connect.
Then he’d met her.
Trace stared at the stark white bandages. He’d lost control for a moment. Wanted her so badly…
He’d driven his hand right into the mirror.
Shattered it. But I won’t shatter her.
“Ah…boss?”
Trace stood just outside of Skye’s studio. The sunlight glinted down on him, and Reese waited a few feet away, studying him with cautious eyes.
Trace strode toward the other man. Skye was still inside. The clean-up crew would be arriving there soon.
“Is the cop gone?” Trace asked, getting right to business.
Reese nodded. “He just left but, you should know, I don’t think he bought your alibi.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s not going to be able to tie me to Ben Sharpe’s murder.” Ben, why the hell did you seek me out? Why didn’t you just stay hidden? You could have stayed alive then.
“The detective’s gonna dig.” Reese thrust his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Are you worried about what he’ll find when he starts poking around in Sharpe’s past?”
Sharpe’s past was linked to Trace’s. “He’ll see the official records, nothing more.” Because there were things that Uncle Sam wanted covered up, too.
Some blood and death didn’t need to ever see the light of day.
“You went after Sharpe.” Reese’s voice was hesitant. “Is the ME gonna find anything on his body that will link back to you?”
Trace remembered the instant back at his penthouse when he’d shoved his forearm under Ben’s jaw. Rage had burned through him in that moment, and he’d reacted purely on instinct. “I think I’m clear.”
Trace glanced back at the fire station—no, it was a studio now, her studio. “Stay close to her.” He pulled out his keys.
“Boss?”
He glanced at Reese.
“There something that you want to tell me?” Reese’s gaze was steady. “You pulled me off Sharpe’s detail last night. Told me that you could handle things.”
Reese thinks I killed him. Trace shook his head. “There’s nothing else you need to know. Not yet.” Not until Trace had done some digging of his own.
Reese gave a grim nod.
Trace looked down at his hands. The tanned flesh. The
callused fingertips. Sure, he wore the thousand dollar suits. He sat in the boardrooms. He played the games.
But there was more to him than that. And there would always be blood on his hands. One way or another.
***
Alex Griffin paused outside of the nondescript apartment. He heard the rumble of the train outside the building, the scream of sirens.
He was following a hunch that he sure hadn’t shared with his new captain. Because when it came to Trace Weston, the captain would let fear rule him.
Fear of money and power. Alex had seen that same shit go down before. It wasn’t happening again.
Alex raised his hand and pounded against the door. He had little to lose—so why worry about fear?
Footsteps shuffled toward him, then the door opened, and a man stared out at