***

The dancers collected their gear. They were soaked with sweat as they filed out of the studio.

Skye watched them go, smiling and waving even as the sweat dried on her skin. That had been an incredible class. Phenomenal.

I’m going to make it.

The smile wouldn’t leave her face. She needed to call Trace and tell—

Her spine straightened. She would be calling Trace, but not yet.

“Looks like your students are happy.”

She glanced toward the front door. Noah stood there, watching her carefully.

She’d had the door open, and unlocked, all morning.

She wasn’t going to live her life under lock and key, not anymore. The studio had to be open during the day so that her students could come and go as they pleased.

“They are happy.” She flashed her smile once again. “Even though I just worked their asses off.” And her own. Her tights and her leotard clung tightly to her skin.

Noah’s lips stretched in a half-grin. She saw a dimple flash in his left cheek. “Why do I get the feeling you could be a drill sergeant?”

“Because I can be.” When it came to dance, that was her domain. She walked toward him, aware of a faint pull in her lower left calf. The leg had been doing so well lately, but she’d sure pushed hard during the morning class.

Don’t limp.

The old mantra slipped through her mind.

His gaze slid over her body. Lingered a little too long on the expanse of her legs. She shook her head at him. “You know, I am engaged to Trace.”

“Are you? I wasn’t sure, not after that scene yesterday.”

Her lips pursed. “I can be pissed and still love him.”

He edged closer to her. “I envy him.”

“I’m surprised you envy anyone.” Were billionaire bad boys supposed to envy other people?

“He’s always had you, hasn’t he?” Noah glanced away from her. “Do you ever wonder what he’d be like if you weren’t there?”

“He hasn’t always had me.” She picked up a towel. Swiped it over the sweat on the back of her neck. “We were together when we were teens, then apart for a decade. I don’t think that counts as always.” She looked up and found his gaze back on her.

His head was tilted to the right as he studied her. “My mistake.”

Yes, it had been. She sucked in a deep breath. She was furious with Trace, but not with this guy. “I’m sorry, you’ve been nothing but kind to me, and you don’t deserve for me to be snapping at you.”

Surprise flickered over his face.

“What?” She forced a laugh. “I promise, I’m not usually a mega-bitch.”

“I never thought you were.”

Skye wondered just what he had thought. He opened his mouth as if he’d ask her a question, but then his lips clamped together.

Her hands tightened around the towel. “What is it?”

“You knew your parents, right? You didn’t join the system until you were much older.”

She nodded. The system. The trail of foster homes that she’d visited over the years.

Skye pulled on a loose sweatshirt and a pair of jogging shorts. She felt too…exposed talking to Noah in just her leotard and tights.

“I never knew my birth parents.” Anger slipped through his voice. Pain. “I always wondered…where did I come from? Who the hell am I, really?”

Skye tossed aside the towel. She slid off her ballerina slippers and put on her tennis shoes. “When I was a little girl, my mother was amazing. She was the center of my life. We baked cookies. Read stories together at bedtime. Played hide and seek for hours.” The memories were there, warming her heart as they always did. Skye tied her shoe laces and then straightened. “But then she…got sick.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Her mind wasn’t right.” Such simple words to describe the psychotic episodes that had started to plague her mother. “She killed my father one night. They were driving home. People saw them. She was at the wheel. He was trying to grab it, to take control, but she drove them straight to their deaths.”

And they left me alone.

“Christ, I didn’t—”

“I know my past. I know where I came from, and each day, I wonder…is that where I’m going? Will I wind up like her?”

He swore.

“Sometimes, not knowing isn’t so bad.” She said this with a certainty that came from her soul. “When you don’t know, then you can think the best.” She gazed into his eyes. “You were given up because your family wanted you to have a good life. They wanted you to thrive.”

He looked down at his hands. “I did. For the first thirteen years, my adoptive parents were my world.”

The first thirteen…“What happened?”

“They loved to sail.” His breath blew out slowly. “Their boat sank when a storm came up. The winds were so strong. I tried to save them, but I just wasn’t strong enough.”

Her stomach clenched. He’d watched them die.

“I kept my mother up the longest. I told her that I wouldn’t let go, no matter what happened.” Pain darkened his eyes. “And I was still holding her, when the rescue teams finally came in. They pulled her from my arms, and I realized then that she’d been dead for hours.”

She couldn’t just stand there. Not with that much pain in his voice and his eyes. Skye stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

At first, Noah didn’t move. He seemed stunned.

“I know, I probably stink to high heaven,” she said, trying to lighten that pain, “but sometimes, we just need a touch.” To say that we’re not alone.

His arms lifted and closed around her. “I envy him,” he said again. His voice rumbled against her. Then he let her go, and he headed for the door.

When Noah was gone, Skye glanced around her studio.

Noah was lost. She’d been that way once. So scared and alone. Then she’d found Trace.

Or had he found her?

Rolling her shoulders, she turned away from the wall of mirrors. Another class would be there in a few hours. She needed to get ready to go for them.

And she needed to figure out what she was going to say to Trace when she saw him again.

She hadn’t slept the night before. Just been in the dark, in that narrow bed, thinking about him.

Her phone rang then, the soft tone instantly alerting her because it was his ring tone.

Skye hurried over to the desk she’d set up. She grabbed the phone. “Trace—”

“He needs you.”

The voice was low and raspy. Definitely male. But…it didn’t sound like Trace. “Who is this?”

“Don’t you want to help him?”

Despite the sweat still drying on her, Skye felt chilled.

“The alley is just a few blocks away from you. Hurry. Go fast. Maybe you’ll save him.”

She didn’t move. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Look for the art. He had a killer view.”

The call ended.

Skye pulled the phone from her ear. This was crazy. She immediately tried to call Trace back.

She just got his voice mail.

So she dialed his office. A direct line that should’ve connected her to him.

Voicemail.

What was going on?

Maybe you’ll save him.

Skye grabbed for her bag. Her pepper spray waited inside.

She rushed from the studio. Glanced to the left, then the right.

There was an art shop just four blocks away. She took off running. Maybe this was just some ridiculous prank.

Or maybe Trace needed her.

Her feet pounded over the cement. She dodged some pedestrians, barely paused at the stop lights, then, finally, she could see the sign for the art shop.

And, just beyond the shop, she glimpsed the little alley on its right.

Her hand dove into her bag. Her fingers closed around the pepper spray. Armed, Skye crept into the alley.

The scent hit her. Old garbage. Rotten food. And—something else. Something that sent an instinctive shudder through her.

“Trace?” Skye called. “Trace, are you there?”

Her phone rang then, vibrating—and peeling his ring tone.

She jerked and her left hand drew the phone out of her pocket. All the while, she kept a steady hold on her pepper spray. Her fingers swiped across the phone’s screen. “Listen,” she snapped. “I’m here and—”

“What?” Trace voice. Distinct. “Skye, where are you?”

“The alley.” Her words were quiet. She took another step forward.

She saw the foot then. A sneaker clad foot on the ground.

“What alley? Why are you there?” Trace demanded. Then, almost instantly, “Skye, get out of there, now.”

But it was too late.

Because she’d seen the foot, and she could also see the blood.

Bile rose in Skye’s throat as she stared down at Parker. His shirt was soaked a dark red, and his neck bulged open, a gaping smile of red where his throat should’ve been.

He was dead. She knew he was dead, but Skye still found herself dropping to her knees beside him. “Parker?”

“What?” Trace’s roar.

She dropped the phone. Skye leaned toward Parker. His eyes were closed. His face was ashen. And that terrible smell…

Gulping, she tried again, saying, “Parker?”

Then she saw that…something…was on his chest. Something small. Metal. Silver?

Right in the middle of all that blood.

Her eyes narrowed on the object.

It looked like a military dog tag. She inched closer and noticed the outline of the letters.

W-E-S-T-O-N.

“Skye?”

The shout came from the entrance of the alley.

Her hand swiped out. She grabbed the dog tag and shoved it into her pocket.

Footsteps thundered toward her.

She glanced up and met Alex’s shocked stare. Two uniformed officers stood behind him.

Those officers had their guns drawn and pointed straight at her.

Skye lifted her hands, holding her palms up. “I found him like this.”

Alex’s gaze was on the dead man. “That’s Parker Jacobs.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

His eyes lifted to study her hands. Crap. Had she gotten blood on her fingers when she snatched up that dog tag? “I-I saw him and tried to help.”

“There’s no helping the dead.”

No, there wasn’t.

Maybe he isn’t the one I was sent to help.

Skye rose, slowly. “I’m not a threat.”

Alex frowned.

“Th-the guns,” she said.

He looked back. Swore. “Drop the weapons!” Alex ordered, his voice snapping with command. “And call the ME. We’re gonna need the wagon for this one.”

He advanced toward her. Skye realized that she’d dropped her bag and her phone. They were still on the ground near the body.

And, of course, her phone would begin to vibrate and ring right at that exact moment.

An image of Trace filled the phone’s screen.

Chapter Nine

Police cruisers blocked the mouth of the alley. Trace jumped from his vehicle and rushed forward, but a uniformed cop held up a hand, blocking his way. “Sorry, sir, but you need to step back.”

What he needed was to find out what the hell was happening.

As if on cue, a dark van pulled up behind him. The side of the van held two simple words written in garish yellow: County Coroner.

Then he saw her. Trace caught a glimpse of Skye’s dark hair as she bent near the side of a patrol car. She was climbing into the back seat of that cruiser.

Being arrested?

He lunged toward her. “Skye!”

Her head turned at his call, and the man next to her straightened. Trace wasn’t particularly surprised to see Alex Griffin there.

“What happened?” Trace demanded. He wanted to reach for Skye and pull her into his arms, but after the scene last night, he didn’t know how she’d react to his touch. To him.

“I found Parker’s body.” Her voice was low.

His heart wouldn’t slow down.

“He’d been stabbed. And his throat was slit.”

And she’d seen that.

He glanced away from her too pale face and found Alex watching him. The suspicion was obvious in the man’s gaze.

“I just got here,” Trace growled at him. “Go talk to your uniforms. They saw me arrive.”

Because he’d raced like hell across town. When Skye’s phone had cut out, and she hadn’t answered his calls back, Trace had panicked.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll definitely be talking to the uniforms.” Alex focused his attention back on Skye. “I still don’t understand why you were in that alley.”

She licked her lips. Cut her gaze away from Alex. Looked at Trace. Then back to the cop.

A sign she’s lying.

“I was taking a break between my classes. I-I wanted some air so I went for a walk,” Skye said.

“Into an alley?” The detective was obviously doubting her answer. He knows that she’s lying, too.

“I was looking at the art in the window.” She pointed to the shop on the corner. “Then I—I thought I heard someone calling for help in the alley, so I went-”

“Men who’ve had their throats slit don’t usually call for help,” Alex pointed out, voice flat.

She jerked, but her gaze kept meeting the cop’s. “Then I guess I imagined the voice.”

“I guess you did,” Alex muttered.