His eyes narrowed as he saw a man rushing away from the runway. “Uh, excuse me, sir…” Alex called out.
The man, older, balding, frowned at him. He wore one of the light blue uniforms typical of the ground crew.
“Were you just working on Trace Weston’s plane?” Alex asked, as he kept his badge out.
The fellow glanced at the badge, then back at Alex’s face. “Mr. Weston doesn’t have any trouble with me. I do my job, I—”
“I never said you didn’t,” Alex soothed. “I was just curious…”
And he had been curious. He’d pulled up at Skye’s studio just in time to see her climb into Weston’s car. So he’d followed them, and he’d watched them fly right out of the city.
Strange. An attack one day. A vacation the next?
“Where was Mr. Weston heading?” Alex asked as he cocked his head.
The guy glanced over his shoulder. “I-I think he was going to New York again.”
Where Skye Sullivan had lived for so long. “Does he go to New York often?” He could, for business, or for—
“Yeah, he goes there a lot. At least once each week.” The man tried to brush by him.
Alex just shifted and blocked his path. “Guys on the ground can sometimes hear stories.” And pick up a lot of gossip. “You hear any stories about why Weston visited New York? In the past? Tonight?”
The man smiled, revealing a crooked front tooth. “I don’t care why he flies. It just matters that he does. Gives me a job.”
Right. This info wasn’t helping him.
The guy walked away. Alex glanced up at the sky. Light raindrops were still falling down. He couldn’t see the plane any longer.
Maybe Weston had been taking all those trips to the Big Apple strictly for business.
Or maybe…maybe he’d been heading to New York for another reason.
Alex had pulled Skye’s accident report. He’d read her statement about someone following her. Forcing her off the road.
The more he probed, the more he worried.
Skye Sullivan was in danger. He just hoped she wasn’t putting her trust in the wrong person.
A mistake like that could prove fatal for her.
***
Trace kept his hand curved around Skye as they headed through the hotel’s lobby. The marble floor gleamed up at him as the concierge quickly escorted them to the private elevator.
Skye wasn’t speaking. She was barely making eye contact with him, and he hated that.
He missed how they used to be.
I’ll have that again.
He’d have everything again.
The elevator doors closed, and the ascent began. The elevator slid up, higher and higher.
“Uh, Mr. Weston?” The concierge—Max—cleared his throat. “Is there anything that you’ll be needing tonight?”
Trace didn’t even try to take his eyes off Skye. She’d slept on the plane. He’d been too wired to even consider dozing off. “I have everything I need.” His voice rumbled.
Skye’s gaze cut to his.
The elevator’s doors opened.
Max scrambled outside. “Y-your suite is waiting, sir. Of course, it’s our plaza suite, just as you always request when you visit to see the—”
“I know the suite,” Trace cut through his words before Max could say anymore. The fellow was damn chatty tonight.
Max hurriedly opened the suite room door. Skye strode inside. Her head tilted back as she looked up at the massive chandelier that waited in the great room.
“You…um…are you sure you don’t want the personal chef to come up?” Max lingered near the door as the bellhop brought in their luggage. “It’s late, but never too late for you, Mr. Weston—”
He knew that the personal chef came with the suite. Trace just didn’t want the guy up there at that moment. He wanted to be alone with Skye. “Send him up for breakfast,” Trace said. His gaze narrowed on the bellhop. “All the bags go in the master bedroom.”
Skye had paused at the windows that overlooked Fifth Avenue. It seemed her shoulders tensed.
She’d heard his order about the bags.
But she wasn’t arguing.
Yet.