Skin Deep by Pamela Clare Read Free Book Online Page A

it. As for the rest of it, we’ve got this. Trust me, okay?”
    Megan drew a deep breath, nodded. “Okay.”
    # # #
    Megan pulled into her driveway, Emily asleep in the back seat. An unmarked police car followed behind her, while another was already parked a few houses down. She recognized Detective Wu—one of Julian’s most trusted men—in the front seat. She pushed the button to open her garage, pulled slowly inside, and closed the garage again.
    And for a moment she simply sat there.
    Her brother wanted her to trust the police, but Megan couldn’t. If even one of them was corrupt, her brother wouldn’t be able to protect her. Besides, having them follow her everywhere felt like being on parole or in prison again.
    She carried Emily inside, laid her down on her bed, then began to pack. She’d called her boss, who’d been surprisingly understanding and told her to take the day as a paid personal day. Megan had been so grateful.
    Marc was coming by at about seven tonight to pick her up and take her to his place. He hadn’t told her the details, but she knew they had plans to catch Donny and the others tonight using a woman police detective in an auburn wig to make the money drop in her place. If it worked, Donny and the others would be in custody by morning, and this nightmare would be behind her. All she had to do was sit tight—and hope the men in the cars outside weren’t working for the men who’d threatened her.
    She finished packing her suitcase, packed one for Emily, and carried them both to the living room, catching sight of the squad car outside. She drew the blinds and sank onto the couch, feeling trapped.
    And there on the coffee table she saw Nate’s business card.
    # # #
    Nate showered off the hay dust and shaved, unable to shake the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach—or his rage. He’d heard of some pretty sick shit happening to women when he’d been deployed, and what had happened to Megan ranked right up there with the worst of it. But what had been done to Megan had happened right here in his country, in his home state, not in Afghanistan.
    That poor girl has been through enough, I mean to tell you.
    It all made sense now—the reverend’s words, the shadows in her eyes, her fear of guns, why her brother was so damned protective. He still couldn’t believe what Marc Hunter had done for his sister. It had been wrong—no question about that—but Nate could understand why he’d done it. He’d paid one hell of a high price for it in the end.
    There’d been photos of Megan, part of a series of stories about pregnant women in prison that had run in the Denver Independent. She’d been Megan Rawlings back then, and she’d looked like a different person—haunted, fragile, unhealthy. Among them had been a series of shots that had put an ache in his chest.
    Megan in labor while shackled to a hospital bed by her ankle, in pain and chained like an animal. Megan, still shackled by her ankle, looking down at newborn Emily, looking exhausted but happy. Megan in tears as her baby was taken away, despair on her face.
    Nate didn’t know what it was like to be a woman, or to bring a child into the world, or to have that child taken away. He’d never been arrested, had never spent a day in prison. He’d never been addicted to anything, not even the painkillers they’d pumped into his system when he’d been in the burn center. But he did know that it had taken a lot of guts for Megan to get from where she’d been in those photographs to where she was today.
    And now some piece of shit was stalking her, threatening her, threatening little Emily. It made Nate want to hurt someone.
    Specifically, Donny Lee Thomas.
    Nate dried off, strode naked to his closet, and slipped into a pair of jeans. He’d just pulled a T-shirt over his head when his cell phone rang. He picked it up, glanced at the display, but didn’t recognize the number. “Nate West.”
    “It’s Megan. Megan