Skin Deep (3 page)

“Shit. Yeah, McBride. That’s his name.”

“What are you doing here?” came the voice from the man holding him down.

“I came to give Ms. Hunter her wallet. I got it away from that son of a bitch when he and I fought, but I forgot I had it. Now, can you get me out of these damned cuffs? You know I’m not armed.”

“We’ve got the wrong man.” That was the voice of the cop who’d gone to the truck. “Let him up, Darcangelo.”

Nate felt a tug on the plastic as the cuffs were cut and his wrists were freed. He pushed himself up with his left arm and got to his feet, rubbing the ache from his right shoulder. He glanced around and found himself surrounded by three men, all of them as tall as he was, a few uniforms hanging out in the background.

Darcangelo—the one who’d held him down and cuffed him—wore a black leather jacket and jeans, his hair drawn back in a ponytail. The lack of badge and street clothes told Nate he was a detective. He looked like a man who’d spent his life on the street and knew how to fight dirty. His relaxed stance didn’t fool Nate. The man was like a cougar, ready to attack.

Beside Darcangelo stood a clean-cut man wearing a suit and tie, a duty badge that read “Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Zach McBride” clipped on his jacket. McBride studied Nate with a gaze that could cut glass, then glanced at Nate’s driver’s license. “Definitely the wrong guy.”

A SWAT cop, a police detective and a chief deputy U.S. Marshal made for a very unusual surveillance team. He’d bet they were buddies.

Nate reached out, took his wallet. “Damned right you got the wrong guy. Don’t you think you went a bit overboard? You could’ve at least asked my name before you shoved me to the ground.”

“Sorry, but I take no chances where Megan is concerned.” Hunter, the SWAT cop Nate recognized from the crime scene, stepped forward, Megan’s wallet in his left hand. He offered Nate his right. “Marc Hunter with Denver SWAT. Thanks for what you did today. You may have saved my sister’s life.”

His
sister
?

Megan was his sister.

And suddenly Nate felt less like kicking the man’s ass.

He took Hunter’s hand, gave as firm a shake as he got, ignoring the pain in his scarred fingers and tendons. “I’m glad I was able to help.”

The front door opened and Megan appeared, her face illuminated by the porch light. And, man, did she look angry. “Marc, stop! He’s the man… Oh. You figured that out.”

“I told you to stay away from the windows.” Hunter glared at his sister.

She ignored him, her gaze meeting Nate’s, her expression softening. “I … I’m sorry. My brother is just trying to keep me safe.”

“I brought your wallet.” Nate found it hard to talk with her looking at him like that. “I got it away from Donny and then forgot it was in my pocket.”

Hunter handed the wallet to his sister. “At least Donny doesn’t have it—which means he and his gang might not know where you live.”

Megan looked down at the wallet, then back at Nate. “Won’t you come inside, Nathaniel?”

“Call me Nate.” He needed to hit the road. He had a long drive home, and he needed to take care of the graze on his shoulder. Besides, he had no business getting involved with a woman right now—particularly when that woman’s brother was as protective as a pit bull and traveled with a pack.

But his mouth didn’t seem to be listening to his brain. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

# # #

Megan led Nate inside and shut the door behind him, ignoring the surprise on Marc’s face. She’d wanted to kick her brother’s butt when she’d realized who it was he and Julian had pinned on the ground in handcuffs. It was one thing to watch the house. It was another to beat up every man who tried to come to her door.

“Can I take your coat?” She glanced around, feeling suddenly conscious of the toys on the living room floor, the thin layer of dust on the furniture, and her own less than polished appearance. She probably had mascara all over her face from crying, not to mention her bruised and swollen cheek.

For a moment, he looked like he would refuse. “Sure. Thanks.”

He shrugged out of the shearling barn jacket, wincing slightly as he drew out his left arm. His dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt was torn at the shoulder, and the cloth was stained with…

Blood.

“Oh, God! I forgot you were hit!”

“It’s nothing, really.” He looked down at her, his gaze fixed on the bruise on her cheek. “Just a minor graze.”

“I’ll clean it for you.”

He shook his head. “I can deal with it when I get home.”

“Don’t be silly.” She walked into the kitchen, needing to check on Emily. “It’s the least I can do.”

He followed.

Back in the kitchen, Emily had finished her spaghetti and was sipping milk from her cup, her fingers as messy as her face, her fork conveniently forgotten.

“This is my little girl, Emily.” Megan couldn’t help but smile as she looked over at her daughter. Emily was the greatest blessing of her life, the one pure and beautiful thing that Megan had done, the only reason she didn’t view her entire life as a terrible mistake.

If a little girl as sweet and innocent as Emily had come from inside her, then she couldn’t be all that bad.

Nate looked over at Emily and smiled. “Hi, Emily. I’m Nate.”

Emily dropped her cup and put her hands over her face, hiding.

“I guess she’s going to be shy now. Sorry.” Megan walked to the sink, got a wash cloth wet with warm water. “We don’t get many visitors apart from family.”

“No worries.” Nate sat down at the table. “How old are you, Emily?”

Megan turned in time to see Emily take one hand from her face and hold up four messy little fingers.

“Four! You’re getting to be a big girl, aren’t you?”

Emily covered her face again and nodded from behind her mask.

“You’re good with kids. Do you have children of your own?” Megan walked to the table, wash cloth in hand, and wiped the spaghetti sauce off Emily’s hands and face. This naturally made Emily squirm in protest.

“No, no kids. I’ve never been married.”

Neither had Megan. She lifted Emily to the floor. “Why don’t you finish coloring your pretty picture while Mommy and Nate talk?”

Emily flopped down on her tummy, picked up a red crayon and began to color the horse’s mane, humming sweetly to herself, her feet in the air.

And then it hit Megan as it hadn’t before.

Emily had been in danger today—because of her.

Oh, my God! Emily! They’re going to try to get my little girl!

Call the cops. They’ll get to her faster than you can.

Feeling as if she were made of wood, Megan walked back to the sink with the dirty wash cloth. She washed her hands, then turned to find Nate watching her. “Thank you for calling 911, for staying calm when I panicked. Your quick thinking helped keep my little girl safe.”

If anything should ever happen to Emily…

“You’ve had a rough night.” His voice was deep, soothing, his blue eyes warm as he watched her.

If the right side of his face weren’t so terribly scarred, he would have been almost frighteningly handsome. His jaw was square, his lips set in a firm line, his eyes expressive. He was every bit as tall as Marc, with broad shoulders and thick sandy brown hair that he’d cropped short. Although his right hand was badly burned, his left was unhurt, his nails neatly trimmed.

“Yeah.” She looked away, surprised to find herself thinking of him as a
man
—and yet feeling at ease with him at the same time. It must be because he’d saved her life. “It would have been a lot rougher if you hadn’t showed up when you did.”

“I’m glad I was there.” The tone of his voice told her that he meant it. “The guy who attacked you—has he been stalking you?”

“Yeah.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell Nate the whole truth about Donny.

“I know your brother is watching out for you, but maybe you should consider getting a concealed carry permit and a little revolver to carry in your purse—just in case.”

“I … don’t feel comfortable with firearms.” Another half-truth.

The whole truth was that, in addition to her aversion to guns, she couldn’t legally own or posses a firearm, much less qualify for concealed carry.

“If you wanted to learn how to shoot, I’d be happy to give you lessons. I bet your brother would be willing to help you out, too.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to Marc about it.” She hoped Nate would let it go. “Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“Water’s good.”

She got out a clean glass, filled it with water and ice from the dispenser in her fridge door. While he drank, she retrieved her first aid kit from the cupboard above the stove. “You’ll need to take off your shirt.”

He set the nearly empty glass aside. “You don’t need to do this.”

“You didn’t need to help me either.” She turned toward him, first-aid kit in hand, her gaze meeting his. “You could’ve turned your back and driven away, but you didn’t. You helped me even though I was a stranger. It almost got you killed. I’d like to help you in some small way—if you’ll let me.”

Seeming to hesitate, he stood, grasped the hem of his shirt and slowly drew it up over his belly and chest. The left side of his body, like the left side of his face, was stirringly male—an honest-to-God six pack, a well-defined chest, muscular arms, a scattering of soft brown curls, a flat, dark nipple. But the right side was horribly scarred from the waistline of his jeans up to his shoulder—no nipple, no chest hair.

He was half marble sculpture, half tortured survivor, the thought of how much he must have suffered giving Megan chills.

She set the first-aid kit on the table and took a good look at the wound in his left shoulder. It was deeper than she had imagined it would be and caked with dried blood. If the round had struck him only six inches more to the right, he’d be dead. “I’m so sorry this happened. It must be painful.”

He turned his head, looked down at his own shoulder. “It’s nothing, really.”

Compared to what he’d been through, it probably
was
nothing.

She opened the kit, slipped on a pair of sterile nitrile gloves, and reached for a packet of Lidocaine gel. “This will numb it so I can clean it without hurting you.”

“That’s one heck of a first-aid kit. You a nurse?”

“No.” She opened the packet and squeezed the gel onto the wound, gently rubbing it in. “It was a housewarming gift from one of my brother’s friends. Gabe is a paramedic. He taught me how to use everything. He wanted me to be prepared.”

“Your brother has some good friends. Those guys out front—they’re part of his crew, too, aren’t they?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t help but smile. Marc’s friends had become her extended family. They knew the truth about her, but they still cared about her. If that wasn’t the definition of family, what was? “They’re kind of like a big brother posse.”

“I believe it.”

She looked up to find Nate watching her, stepped back, and tossed the empty gel packet in the trash. “Now we wait.”

N
ate hadn’t bared any part of his body to a woman who wasn’t a nurse since he’d been burned. He felt naked now, exposed to the gaze of a woman who was little more than a stranger. And yet Megan hadn’t balked at the sight of him, hadn’t looked away, hadn’t tried to cover up her own unease with nervous conversation. She’d looked straight at him and then had gotten to work. “You haven’t asked me.”

The pain in his shoulder began to fade, the gel doing its job.

She reached into the first-aid kit for a Betadine packet. “Asked you about what?”

“How I got burned.”

She opened the packet, poured Betadine into one side of it, dipping the gauze into the antiseptic solution. “I guess you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”

“I was caught by an IED.”

“So you were a soldier.” She cleaned the skin around the wound, washing away dried blood.

“I was a Marine special operator.” He tried not to notice the way his abdominal muscles tensed when she touched him. “Our convoy got hit in Kandahar Province.”

She tossed the bloodied gauze into the trash, reached for another pad, and dipped it into the Betadine, this time washing the wound itself. “That’s in Afghanistan, right?”

“Yeah. The blast ignited the fuel tank.” He was sharing the worst memory of his life, and yet all he could think about was the woman beside him. What the hell was up with that? “Three men died instantly. Six of us were badly wounded.”

Her hands stilled, and she looked at him through green eyes full of shadows—too many shadows for a woman in her twenties. “I’m sorry. It must have been terrible. Losing friends, the physical pain. I can’t imagine it.”

Her sincerity touched him, made his mind go blank. He managed to say something in response. “We knew the risks when we signed on.”

“Yes, but no one thinks it will happen to them. Then, when it does…”

The resignation in her voice told him she spoke from personal experience, and he found himself wondering what had happened to her.

She reached for another clean piece of gauze, dipped it in the antiseptic, and cleaned deeper this time. “Does this hurt?”

“No.” He felt no pain, but he
was
feeling her.

He seemed to be aware of everything about her. The feminine timbre of her voice. The soft scent of her skin. The curves of her ass and hips beneath the soft cloth of her jeans. The swells of her breasts beneath her sweater. The loving way she looked over at her daughter every couple of minutes, keeping a watchful eye. The gentleness of her fingers against his skin.

Even through the sterile gloves, her touch seared him.

How long had it been since he’d been with a woman?

He’d been faithful to Rachel the entire time he’d been downrange, so with the time he’d spent in the hospital, that meant three years, almost four.

Too damned long.

“Thank you for your service—and your sacrifice.” Megan tossed the piece of dirty gauze in the trash. “And here you are injured again—this time helping me. You’ve got it, you know.”

“Got what?”

“The hero gene.” She reached for a large adhesive bandage, peeled off the paper wrapping and the tabs, and pressed it gently over his wound. “It’s the gene that drives some men to act and take responsibility while others do nothing.”