Skin Deep

by Pamela Clare

  Rage thrummed inside Nate’s chest. He knew all of this, of course. He’d read it in the paper. Megan had run away from her adoptive parents, had been arrested for trying to steal a warm coat, and had been placed in juvenile detention, where she, like the other girls in her unit, had been raped almost every day for six months. It had been hard enough to stomach when he’d read the words on newsprint—adult men in a position of trust and authority taking advantage of young girls who were under their power, girls with nowhere to run and no one to turn to, girls whose lives were already a mess. But seeing the torment on Megan’s pretty face, watching the way she seemed to fold up right before his eyes, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle as if she feared her body might come apart…

  He wanted to slam his fist through the wall. He wanted to hunt down the bastards who’d done this to her, ram their dicks down their throats, and put a bullet between their eyes. Too bad all but one of them were already dead, because they’d gotten off easy. The most he could do to them now was piss on their graves. As for the son of a bitch who was still alive—he was serving a life sentence for rape and murder and would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, impotent and incontinent, thanks to a bullet from Marc Hunter’s gun.

  That, at least, felt like justice.

  Nate fought to keep his voice calm. “You must have felt so alone and afraid.”

  She nodded, her body trembling now. “I reported them. I got an infection and told the doctor everything. The rapes stopped, but no one believed us.”

  Nate had read how the guards had sabotaged the investigation, claiming that the girls had seduced them to win favors and privileges. The investigators had bought into their bullshit. And when Megan had been released, she’d been left to deal with the aftermath alone because the Rawlingses, her adoptive parents, didn’t want her back.

  Nate wouldn’t mind having a few minutes alone with the Rawlingses. They’d adopted Megan at the age of four after her mother was sent to prison for drunk driving and vehicular assault. They’d refused to adopt 10-year-old Marc, tearing brother and sister apart. They’d given Megan too little love and too many beatings with a belt. But Hunter hadn’t forgotten the little sister he’d lost, and after a few tours of duty in Iraq, he’d left the army and gone in search of her—only to find her strung out on heroin and living on the streets.

  “I have to give your brother credit for tracking you down the way he did.” Nate stood, took a throw off a nearby chair and wrapped it around Megan’s shoulders.

  Megan’s lips curved into a hint of a smile. “When he found me, it was one of the happiest days of my life. He put me in rehab and moved me into his house. I got clean, got on my feet again. I went to work on my GED. I had plans to go to college. I felt so full of hope, so certain that I’d turned my life around. I was wrong.”

  Her smiled faded. “Sometimes I wish he hadn’t found me—for his sake.”

  Nate was certain she didn’t mean that and so he let it pass. “Why didn’t you tell him what had happened to you? Why didn’t you tell him about the guards?”

  Megan shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “No one believed me—the cops who investigated it, the people who were supposed to be my parents. Marc was all I had in this entire world. I didn’t want to lose him.”

  When she put it like that, Nate could understand. “He was working with the DEA then, wasn’t he?”

  Megan nodded. “He wanted to put men like the ones who’d sold heroin to me in prison.”

  She looked down, squeezed her eyes shut, and Nate knew where her thoughts were taking her. What a sick twist of fate it was that John Cross, one of the guards who’d raped her and the other girls, had landed himself a sweet post as an agent with the DEA when he ought to have been serving time in prison. Nate couldn’t imagine how Megan must have felt when that son of a bitch showed up on her brother’s doorstep.

  “I didn’t mean to kill anyone.” Tears welled up in Megan’s eyes. “Marc answered the door, and he came inside. I was so afraid! I panicked, just lost it. I ran and hid. Marc came after me. He asked me what was wrong, and it just spilled out of me—what Cross and the others had done to me and the other girls.”

  “And your brother believed you.”

  Megan nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. “He went back to the living room and confronted Cross. I heard them yelling. I heard Cross say that it hadn’t been rape, that I had wanted it. He was laughing as if what he’d done to me and the other girls were nothing.”

  Cross’s words, as remembered by Hunter, were part of the court record and had been reported in the paper. Nate remembered them because they’d made him sick.

  You know how chick inmates are—bored and horny, dreaming of dick. Every time you walk by their cells, you know they’re hoping you’ll give it to them.

  “I walked out to them. It was like I was sleepwalking. I … I saw Marc’s gun on the table, and then it was in my hands. It went off. And then Cross was lying on the floor, and Marc was telling me to run, to go, and I … I ran.” Megan covered her face with her hands.

  Her quiet weeping tugged at Nate’s chest. He knew what it was to kill. He’d taken his share of lives in Afghanistan, had pulled the trigger and watched men die. Ending another person’s life was never easy, not even when you’d trained for it, prepared yourself mentally for it. Not even when it was self-defense.

  But what Megan had endured…

  Jesus Christ!

  Nate would be lying if he’d said he wasn’t glad Cross was dead. The bastard had worked hard to earn every one of the three bullets that had ripped through his chest. But Nate wished it hadn’t been Megan who’d pulled that trigger—for her sake and her brother’s.

  Hunter had tried to cover for his sister, taking the blame for Cross’s death, hoping his status as an agent and a decorated veteran would net him a plea bargain and short sentence. But the attempt had backfired, and he’d found himself serving life without parole, while Megan, traumatized and tortured by guilt, ended up on the streets once again using heroin to make herself forget. And then she’d ended up in prison, too, already pregnant.

  Only after Cross’s accomplices had decided to hunt down their victims and silence them one by one had the truth come out. Megan, out on parole, had realized they’d be coming after her and had fled with her baby. Marc, knowing she was running for her life, had taken a woman reporter hostage and broken out of prison to protect Megan. They’d probably be in Mexico right now if it hadn’t been for Darcangelo, who’d put the pieces together and tracked them down.

  The jury had found Megan not guilty by reason of self-defense, agreeing with her attorney that she had good reason in her state of mind to believe she was in mortal danger. But Hunter’s jury had found him guilty on all counts, holding him responsible for covering up the truth about Cross’s death—and for taking that reporter hostage.

  Megan sniffed, wiped the tears from her face. “Marc was my hero. He did so much for me, but I almost ruined his life.”

  Nate handed her a tissue, fighting the need to hold her, comfort her. “He was a grown man, a federal agent, a combat veteran. He knew what he was doing, Megan. You can’t blame yourself for his choices.”

  She met Nate’s gaze, her green eyes red from crying. “I killed a man, and I let my brother go to prison for it. I could’ve come forward at any time during the six years he was behind bars, but I didn’t. Instead, I lived on the streets doing drugs. I got pregnant by a drug dealer for God’s sake—and I barely remember when it happened! How can you look at me with anything but contempt?”

  That answered Nate’s questions about Donny.

  Nate reached out, brushed a strand of auburn hair from her face. “When I look at you, Megan, I see a woman who suffered so much so young. I see a survivor who has fought hard to make a new beginning for herself and her little girl. I see a person who volunteers to help the poor and the homeless because she knows what it’s like to live on the streets, a mother who is doing one hel
l of a job of raising a child alone, a good parent who loves her daughter.”

  “How can I be a good mother when I was in prison for the first year of Emily’s life?” Megan shook her head, tears filling her eyes once more, anguish on her face. “There’s no such thing as new beginnings. No matter what I do, it always comes back. Always. There are some things the world just doesn’t forgive.”

  Nate quit fighting his instincts. He drew her into his arms, held her, let her cry, her slender body shaking violently. “It’s not so much that the world won’t forgive you, Megan, honey. It seems to me that you won’t forgive yourself.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Be careful. It’s hot.”

  “Thanks.” Megan took the mug of steaming chamomile tea from Nate, a part of her craving something much stronger.

  While he put more wood on the fire, she sipped, struggling to pull the pieces of herself together. She felt drained, weak, ragged. It seemed unreal to her that she’d just bared the darkest side of her soul to a man she’d known only for a week, but she had.

  She’d told him everything.

  More than that, she’d buried her face in his shirt and sobbed while he’d held her. The only other men she’d let touch her like that were Marc and Julian, but that was different. Marc was her brother, and Julian… Well, he was like a brother.

  What she felt for Nate was very different.

  She couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him. Usually that meant she’d want to run as far away from him as she could. But she wasn’t running. And, even stranger, neither was he.

  He poured himself another drink and sat on the sofa. “Are you warm?”

  She nodded, grateful for the blanket he’d wrapped around her shoulders.

  He leaned back into the cushions, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure. Why not?” She no longer had any secrets where he was concerned.

  “That reporter your brother took hostage when he broke out of prison—he got her pregnant while he was on the run, and she married him, didn’t she?”

  Nate’s question, as blunt as it was, wasn’t what Megan had been expecting.

  She laughed. “He and Sophie have been married for almost four years now, and they have two kids—Chase and Addison.”

  Nate shook his head, a bemused expression on his face. “That’s … interesting.”

  Megan smiled. “Believe it or not, Marc can be very sweet. You haven’t exactly seen his soft side.”

  “No, I suppose I haven’t.” Nate gave a wry grin. “I don’t blame him for watching over you the way he does. If I were in his shoes and spotted some strange guy walking up to my little sister’s front door after she’d been attacked, I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

  “Marc knows I get … uncomfortable around men, and I guess he does his best to make certain I feel safe.” Megan looked away, took a sip of tea.

  “Do you feel uncomfortable around me?” It was a sincere question, no defensiveness in his voice, no hint that she needed to lie to protect his ego.

  Megan found herself studying him from his short sandy brown hair to his deep set blue eyes to the tanned skin on the left side of his face to the scars on the right. “No—which is kind of strange.”

  It was both fascinating—and frightening.

  “Well, that’s good—I think.” The smile lines around his eyes crinkled, a hint of humor in his voice.

  And she knew she would never get a better time than now to let him know where she stood. “I’m never going to be with a man, Nate. I’m telling you this now because … because I don’t want to mislead you. I don’t like being touched. I don’t like sex. I’ve never enjoyed it.”

  “Never?” His brows bent in a frown.

  “Never.” She glanced away for a moment, unable to bear the scrutiny of his gaze. “When a man touches me, I feel … revulsion. I instantly feel sick to my stomach. It’s all I can do not to shove him away. What those men did to me—it’s a part of me. I can’t shake it.”

  Even years of therapy hadn’t changed that. A hug from a male acquaintance, a man’s arm around her shoulders, an overly long handshake—they all made her want to pull away and run. She couldn’t even go to a male doctor.

  “I’m sorry. If I’d known…” Nate’s frown deepened. “Did I make you feel that way just now when I held you?”

  “N-no.” Warmth rushed to Megan’s cheeks.

  “I’m glad to hear that.” He seemed to think about this for a moment as if it were a puzzle he needed to solve. “How about when I caught you when you fell getting off the horse?”

  “No.” Her cheeks burned hotter.

  “What about the times I’ve held your hand?”

  Could he see that she was blushing? God, she hoped not! “No, not then either.”

  His gaze locked with hers. “And last night—when I kissed you?”

  “No.” She rushed to explain. “But we were interrupted, and I … I think maybe there just wasn’t time for me to react.”

  Nate set his drink down on the coffee table. “Do you want to test that theory?”

  Megan’s heart took off at a sprint. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “I could kiss you again just like I did last night—soft and easy—and since we’re not going to be interrupted this time, you’ll be able to see whether that sense of revulsion kicks in. If it does, we stop.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “We’ll know you just needed to kiss the right man.”

  She felt that flutter in her belly again, and time was measured in heartbeats as he watched her, waiting for her answer. Some part of her was afraid their little experiment would fail. Some part of her was afraid it would succeed.

  There’s no point in trying. You know how this will end, girl.

  But did she? Everything had been different with Nate so far.

  She drew a steadying breath. “How would we do it?”

  “We could do it like we did last night.” He spoke matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing how to change a tire. “I’ll sit close to you and kiss you nice and slow, and we can see how that makes you feel.”

  She nodded. “O-okay.”

  In a single slow motion, he shifted so that he sat beside her, his face inches from hers, his arm stretched out on the back of the leather sofa behind her. “You tell me if you start to feel queasy or repulsed, all right?”

  It was hard to think with him sitting so close. “All right.”

  “Ready?” He reached out, stroked her cheek with the knuckles of his right hand.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Without closing his eyes, he leaned in, brushed his lips over hers again and again and again, the feather-light contact sending shivers through her.

  “How are we doing so far?” His eyes looked straight into hers, his voice husky.

  “Good.” She didn’t wait for him this time, but rested her palms against the hard wall of his chest, rose up on one knee, and caressed his lips with hers, increasing the pressure.

  More shivers.

  His eyes drifted shut, his lashes long and dark. One big hand came to rest on her hip as he steadied her. He caught her lower lip between his, and gave it a soft tug.

  Belly flutters.

  Her eyes closed, her hands finding their way up his chest and over his shoulders as she drew herself against him, needing to be closer to him, her arms locking behind his neck. She tilted her head, kissed his upper lip, then his lower lip, then the corners of his mouth, her tongue tracing the outline of his lips, her senses stirred by the taste of him, by the masculine scent of his skin, by the hard feel of him. And Megan forgot she’d always been repulsed by this.

  All she knew was that she wanted more.

  # # #

  Nate fought back a groan as Megan deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue with tentative strokes of her own, her body soft and pliant, her breasts pressing against his chest. His heart beat hard and fast,
scotch mixing with pheromones, running hot through his veins, rushing straight to his groin. He held himself in check, yielding the moment to her, letting her set the pace, wanting her to feel safe, in control.

  He would never claim to be an expert on women or sex. While other men on his team had spent every moment of their free time trying to get laid, he’d been a quality-over-quantity kind of man. Still, he knew enough about women to be pretty damned sure she wasn’t feeling repulsed or sick to her stomach right now. Her fingers dug into the cloth of his shirt, her heart beating so hard he could feel it against his chest.

  He wrapped his arms around her, drew her closer, meeting the strokes of her tongue with his own, until she whimpered. His instinct was to kiss her hard and long, but he didn’t want to ruin this for her by moving too fast, so he drew back instead, gave both of them a second to catch their breath. “How do you feel?”

  Her pupils were dilated, her cheeks flushed. “Like I want you to kiss me again.”

  And that was the invitation he’d been waiting for.

  “Megan.” His left hand slid into her silky hair, cradling her head as he claimed her mouth in an all-out kiss.

  Her lips parted to give him access, her tongue welcoming his as he teased his way inside her mouth, savoring his first full taste of her.

  Jesus!

  How long had it been since he’d kissed a woman? Hell, he didn’t know. It felt like the first time, a jagged bolt of heat lancing through him from the base of his skull to his balls, awakening his very blood.

  He held her tighter, gave in to his need for her, drinking in her taste, her sweet scent, the feminine feel of her body, his hand sliding up the curve of her spine.

  She whimpered, trembling in his arms. He gentled the kiss, brushing his wet lips over hers. She moaned in protest, her fingers sliding up into his hair, dragging his head down, pressing her lips to his once again, opening her mouth to him.