Mine to Keep (Mine #2)(19)

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.

A few moments later, he spun out of the lot with a squeal of the Jag’s tires.

Adrenaline beat in Skye’s blood. “I-I couldn’t tell that he had a camera. I thought it was a gun.”

The Jag’s motor revved. “And you still chased after me, knowing the jerk could have a weapon?” Trace spared her a glittering glare. “I told you to get in the car!”

“And I didn’t feel like waiting for you to fight my battles!” The words burst from her.

Silence.

“That’s what you’re doing.” The scent of leather filled the car’s interior. “Giving me guards. Trying to protect me, twenty-four, seven. You can’t do that. I’ve told you already, I won’t live in a prison. Not even for you.”

“I want you safe—”

“There’s no guarantee of safety. Not for any of us.” Ben Sharpe had discovered that truth. “The guy on the street was a reporter. He would have taken some pictures and been done. He’s not going to be the only one who comes wanting a story, and you can’t attack reporters every time they show up.”

He slowed at a red light.

“He could press charges against you,” she whispered.

“Let him try.”

The wildness was there again. In the slightly cruel curve of his lip. In his eyes as he glanced over at her.

Trace was balanced on a razor’s edge—he’d been that way for weeks, and Skye couldn’t help but wonder what would happen when he fell over the edge.

Her hand lifted and curved around his. His fingers were clenched tightly along the wheel. “You saved me, Trace.”

His eyelids flickered.