Mine to Keep (Mine #2)(15)
Author: Cynthia Eden

“It’s easy,” her voice was soft, breathless. “I just look at you.”

His pupils expanded, the darkness covering more of that amazing blue.

“You’re my center. My focus. For every spin, a ballerina needs a focus.”

But she wasn’t just talking about dancing.

They both knew it.

She glanced down at their bodies. She was covered in sweat and his suit, well, she didn’t even want to know how much it cost. Hurriedly, Skye backed away from him. “I-I need to shower real fast and get changed. Give me just a minute.”

The music had died away. The end of her routine. The spin was the end.

Her steps were soundless as she walked across the floor.

“You don’t limp.”

Her stride faltered.

“I’ve been watching you carefully for weeks now, and I never see you limp.”

“I-I hadn’t been doing much dancing during those weeks, either. After today, my muscles will feel it.” Particularly the muscles in her left calf. Her left leg would always be weaker. Her constant reminder of the life that was gone now.

But I don’t miss the bright stages or the crowds. The stage hadn’t actually ever mattered to her. Neither had the crowds. It was the dancing that she loved.

“You left New York because you didn’t think you could dance as well again. Not after the crash.”

Skye glanced down at her leg. Her tights covered the scars there. Her leg had needed surgery—so many surgeries—to recover. She’d been in therapy for months.

The scars were still there. They always would be. And her dancing…

“I’m not dancing for the stage anymore. That’s over. I’m dancing for me.” She’d said good-bye to her life in New York. She’d come back to Chicago to start over.

And she’d found Trace.

Her head lifted and she glanced toward the now-repaired mirror. She could see Trace’s reflection. He stared at her and said, “I think you’re the most amazing dancer that I’ve ever seen. When I watch you, I forget everything else. You…make me forget.”

She wrapped her hands around her stomach. “I should…I’ll be just a moment.” Then she fled.

Skye stripped and hurried into the shower area. The water blasted onto her, and she glanced down at her body once more. Without the clothes, the tights, there was no hiding.

Her gaze hit her left leg. The scars weren’t an angry red any longer. Pale, white. Twisting on her skin.

Before the accident, her dancing had lit up the stage. Prima ballerina. She’d worked toward that goal for years.

After the crash…she’d had nothing. All of her money had been used to pay the medical bills, and the first time she’d tried to dance—

I fell. Again and again, I fell.

Her hand flew out, and she jerked off the water. She shivered, standing there, dripping wet, with the past around her.

Maybe Trace was right. Maybe looking at the past was wrong.

She grabbed a towel. Dried off. Dressed as quickly as she could. Jeans. A loose top. Sandals. She hurried back to Trace. “I’m done,” Skye called out. “We can—”

He wasn’t in the studio. The lights were on, but there was no sign of Trace.

She made her way to the front of the building. Skye found him, sitting in one of the new chairs that had been brought over. His gaze was directed out of the window, staring at the night.

“If I came out here,” he said, not glancing her way, “I figured I’d be less likely to jump you in the shower.”

Her lips curved at that. “I wouldn’t have minded a little jumping.”

She saw his hands tighten along the arms of the chair. “My…self-control isn’t what it needs to be tonight. Not for you.”

They’d better not be back to that.

He rose then and offered her his arm. “I want to get you home.”

Home. She liked the way he said it. Did Trace realize that the only home she’d really had, since she’d been fifteen—well, it had been with him? Trace was her home.

They left the studio. The streetlights were on, spilling light onto the pavement. There was no sign of Reese, but Trace’s dark Jag waited near the corner of the street.

He led her to the passenger side door. Started to open it, then stopped.

She looked up, wondering what was wrong, and Skye saw that he was staring across the street. Trace was looking at the figure that stood—waiting, watching—just beneath the street light.

A baseball cap was on the man’s head. His shoulders were hunched, so Skye couldn’t see him clearly. He had on jeans, and, even though the weather had warmed, he wore a light coat.

“Get in the car,” Trace ordered her. In a flash, he’d yanked the door open. Pushed her into the seat.

And then he rushed across the street.

What the hell? Skye jumped from the car and ran after him. “Trace, stop!”

The man in the baseball cap was lifting something from his coat. Something small and dark.

A gun. Dear God, what if it’s a gun?

“Trace!” Skye yelled.

He leapt up onto the curb. Grabbed the man’s hand. Light flashed. The guy screamed. His baseball cap slipped to the ground.

“Let me go!” The streetlight fell on his face.

An angled jaw. A hawkish nose. High forehead.

A stranger. Skye had no idea who this man was.

“You can’t attack me, man!” The fellow snarled. “I’m Press! I’ve got rights, you can’t—”

The flash of light. Skye glanced down and saw the shattered remains of the camera on the ground.

“This-this is assault,” the guy sputtered. “You can’t do this to me—”

“I just did.” Trace’s voice was cold and hard. “Want to know what I’ll do next?” His hand shoved into the man’s pocket, and Trace yanked out a wallet. He flipped it open, thumbing through the contents.

“Stop! What. The Hell!”

She saw that Trace had found the guy’s ID.

“I’ll call your boss, Clyde Jones. I’ll get your ass fired.” Trace tossed the wallet back at the man. “Because what kind of Press hides in the shadows, stalking a woman? What were you going to do if she’d come out alone?”

“J-just take some pictures.” Clyde swiped the broken camera from the ground. “It would’ve been an exclusive.”

“Screw the exclusive,” Trace spat. “You’re done.” He caught Skye’s hand, linked his fingers with hers, and marched back across the street.