Mine to Keep by Cynthia Eden Page B

had woken up gasping. Even the walls of the penthouse had seemed to close in on her.
    She needed freedom.
    Not a constant guard, even if that guard was her friend. 
    “My classes start tomorrow,” she said. Excitement slipped through the words. She had full classes—every single one. Sure, some of those students might just be coming because they were curious about the prima ballerina who’d been splashed across all the papers.
    But they’d see the truth soon enough. The classes weren’t about sensationalism. Skye meant business. The studio was about the dance. About what she could teach her students.
    And I’ll teach them plenty.
    She narrowed her eyes on Reese. “I don’t want my students nervous, so the bodyguard bit is ending.” 
    His brows lifted.
    “Not that I don’t love you, but I think your time can be better spent on activities that are a little more…dangerous.” She used the word deliberately because Reese did enjoy his danger. “Now I’m going outside—
alone—
to get a few minutes of fresh air.”
    She’d taken four steps when Reese called out, “I love you, too, Skye…and that’s why I’m playing guard duty. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt.”
    A lump rose in her throat, but she kept going. Reese had gotten underneath her skin. In the weeks that she’d known him, he’d become her friend. She didn’t have a lot of friends.
    He and Trace made her feel less alone in the world.
    She grabbed her bag and then headed onto the sidewalk in front of her building. The air was warm, but not hot. Summer would be there soon enough.
    Skye stared up at the sky. Blue, bright blue, like Trace’s eyes.
    A car horn honked in the distance. It was lunch time, so, of course, the street was busy.
    Tomorrow, she’d open her dance studio. Her students would come.
    Her gaze drifted around the street.
    Tomorrow…
    A man with a hood covering his head stood across the street. Half-hidden by the shadows as he stood under the awning of another office.
    He lifted an object.
    Snapped a picture.
    Her breath sawed out. A reporter. Again. 
    She couldn’t have the reporters bothering her students.
    And I can’t hide forever.
Straightening her shoulders, Skye headed for the cross-walk.
    ***
    Trace clicked the file and watched the image load onto his screen. 
    “The city needs to invest in some better quality equipment,” Noah muttered as he leaned over Trace’s shoulder. “Because that image is crap.”
    Yes, it was. Trace leaned forward. He hit the button to advance the footage.
    The limo was there, waiting at the light.
    And, just down the road, the BMW waited, too.
    Waited.
    When the limo accelerated, the BMW raced toward it.
    “Shit, he’s
aiming
for you,” Noah said.
    Yes, yes, he damn well was.
    The phone on Trace’s desk rang. He picked it up, still staring at the footage. “Weston.”
    “Mr. Weston, it’s Joseph Hadden. I’m at the police station…”
    There was a buzz of activity in the background. Joseph Hadden was one of Trace’s agents. A guy on the rise who always got the job done. Trace had sent him down to the PD because he wanted to know exactly what was happening with the investigation. 
    Trace paused the video. The screen froze on the image of the BMW slamming into the side of the limo.
    “They brought in the owner of the BMW,” Joseph told him. “But that guy swears he hasn’t driven the ride in months. He’s claiming that someone must have stolen it. Says he didn’t even notice it was gone until the cops started asking questions.”
    Eyes narrowing, Trace hit the button to advance the video.
    Glass shattered. Metal bent.
    And the driver of the BMW jumped out. He didn’t immediately run. He stopped. Stared at the wreckage.
    It was too dark to see his face clearly, but Trace could see his body. Tall. Narrow. 
    “What does the owner look like?” Trace asked, fighting to keep all emotion from his voice.
    “Alan Brenthouse is sixty-four, he uses a cane