Skin Heat Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  EPILOGUE

  Teaser chapter

  PRAISE FOR AVA GRAY’S

  SKIN GAME

  “Ava Gray at her best. Smart, witty, and bursting with memorable characters so real you can practically touch them, Skin Game delivers a powerful punch of danger and nonstop adventure . . . Ava Gray is a must read!”

  —Larissa Ione, New York Times bestselling author

  “Sexy, clever, and tightly plotted . . . Ava Gray has some serious writing magic.”

  —Lauren Dane, national bestselling author

  “Adds a tiny touch of the psychic to a riveting romantic suspense novel. Strong, nuanced character development adds depth to the danger . . . [The] chemistry sizzles.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Ava Gray has written a very hot romance between two incredibly fascinating characters . . . The characters have a remarkably strong chemistry between them. Gray never skimps on the connection between the two, even as the story barrels along, full of action and excitement . . . Skin Game is a fast-paced, exciting story featuring fascinating characters, a terrific romance, and a thrilling conclusion.”

  —Romance Novel TV

  “Brilliant . . . The perfect package . . . Fascinating characters, excellent pacing and story line, tons of nail-biting suspense . . . and off-the-charts hot sexual encounters . . . My favorite authors make the characters come alive. And Gray has accomplished this in a truly unique and unexpected fashion.”

  —Penelope’s Romance Reviews

  “Sexy . . . The delicious tension . . . adds spice to the story . . . The romance was particularly well done.”

  —Dear Author

  “Compelling, mind-blowing . . . Raw and candid writing that allowed complicated emotions to come through loud and clear. It’s wonderfully written with a perfect pace, excellent character development, and an intriguing plot . . . Skin Game is a very good read for readers who appreciate romantic suspense with paranormal elements and a perfect must read for those of us craving unembellished writing, raw action, and strong characters . . . [Ava Gray] is an admirable storyteller and a most talented writer.”

  —Pearl’s World of Romance

  Berkley Sensation titles by Ava Gray

  SKIN GAME

  SKIN TIGHT

  SKIN HEAT

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  SKIN HEAT

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / January 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Ann Aguirre.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47683-3

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Bree and Donna.

  Thanks for your support, knowledge,

  and your friendship; it means more to me than you know.

  Well . . . I guess you know now, don’t you?

  I’m bad at keeping secrets.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I thank my agent first. Without Laura Bradford, none of this would be possible. She is one of the bravest people I know; she doesn’t hesitate to take chances and I benefit directly from that courage.

  I also offer infinite gratitude to Cindy Hwang. These are the romances I dreamed of writing, years ago, when I first started reading the genre, and I will never be able to repay her for believing in me.

  Next, I must mention Bree Bridges and Donna Herren. Without these two amazing ladies (and dear friends), this book wouldn’t be finished, let alone half so good. Bree listened to me with endless patience and helped me work through the snarly bits. Donna offered her invaluable expertise regarding forensic information and legal procedures. Halpern County is fictitious, but I did my best to make it feel real. As always, any mistakes or liberties are my own. Both Bree and Donna supported me when I had doubts, cheered me when I was tired, and were my biggest fans while I wrote, making me want to finish so they could read it. Thanks, guys. This book is for both of you since you loved Zeke from the moment I dreamed him up.

  Thanks also to my husband, Andres. I broke my foot while on vacation in Acapulco, and though he had to be weary with working, running all errands for the kids, helping out at home, as well as doing all the shopping, he never once complained. He always made me feel like it was something he wanted to do, so I could focus on working and healing. Likewise, both kids pitched in and helped out, even more than I realized they could. I have seldom felt more cherished, despite the pain and inconvenience. So thanks to them all. They are the best family I could ever want. And thanks especially to Alek, who helped me figure out what sadness smelled like.

  Here’s a shout to my friend, Ivette. It was wonderful seeing you in Mexico City. I appreciate everything you do; it makes my life much easier. I have made wonderful friends these past few years and you are among the best. Your achieveme
nts make me smile: I look at everything you’ve accomplished, and I’m so proud of you! I’m so fortunate to know you.

  Thanks to Ashley Whitney, who came up with the name for Neva’s pet clinic. Thanks to all for being there to give me an encouraging word when I had a minute of downtime. Additionally, I’m sending a special thank-you to the Skin Posse, made up of fiction vixens and book chicks who first loved Reyes and couldn’t wait to read about Foster. Here’s hoping you love Zeke as much; he’s a different kind of hero. Many thanks to Stefanie Gostautas, the best proofreader ever. And thanks to the rest of my readers, who make it possible for me to keep writing. You guys are the best, and I love hearing from you.

  CHAPTER 1

  All the animals were gone.

  Stolen, Zeke guessed. Or he hoped so, at least. He didn’t like to think they might’ve wandered off and died. At one point, he had some chickens and a cow. He’d planted what he could tend and harvest by himself; he’d never been able to afford laborers, not even the migrant kind. He grew most of what he ate. So he’d never had much money, just enough to pay taxes and keep the lights on. It was a simple life, but it had suited him well enough.

  But he’d been gone a long time . . . and not by choice, so the farm carried a desolate air, the land bleak with winter. Standing in the drive, he had a clear view of the dead fields and the pine and oak forest that framed them. The earth still showed the last furrows he’d dug and the rotten harvest he hadn’t been here to bring in.

  He couldn’t see the road, but he heard vehicles passing now and then. The detail unsettled him. Zeke knew when a car had a loose muffler, what engines needed the timing adjusted, and which ones could use a change of spark plugs. The surety made him sick because it wasn’t right. With a faint sigh, he started toward the steps.

  The house, in all its Depression-era glory, had seen better days. Posts supported a sagging porch, and it had been charcoal gray, but the months of neglect and a hot, dry summer had left it looking worse than ever. It was lucky nobody had broken in—not that there was anything worth stealing. Maybe they’d even scouted the place through the windows and come to that conclusion themselves. A few panes were cracked—vandals, most likely, or just bored kids. Those repairs would keep.

  His shoes crunched on loose gravel as he went up the drive. He’d walked the last two miles, after being dropped off by a friendly truck driver. The man hadn’t done anything to set off the prickly way Zeke felt about sharing the cab with him, but he hadn’t been able to stop watching him out of the corner of his eye, every muscle tensed. Every time the guy moved, Zeke felt like defending his territory. Stupid, considering he’d occupied the passenger seat in an eighteen-wheeler that didn’t belong to him.

  With a tired glance, he took in the filthy gutters and the patchy roof. He didn’t like to think about how long it had taken him to get home. Hitchhiking wasn’t a safe way to travel, and these days sometimes people didn’t stop. It had been a long walk, complicated by the fact that sometimes he had to stop and take odd cash jobs in order to eat. If he’d been willing to steal to buy a bus ticket, he could’ve gotten here faster. But he hadn’t been willing. Robbing other people only compounded the crime done to him, so he’d taken it slow, worked his way home as best he could.

  But no wonder things were in such a mess. The place required regular upkeep, and six months ago, before he was taken, he’d put things off because he needed to finish the planting. If he didn’t, then he didn’t eat come winter. It was just that simple.

  Too clearly, he remembered going to a bar over in Akerville with a friend. A local band he liked had been playing and he’d had a beer or two while they ran through their sets. When he came out for some fresh air during the intermission, two men had grabbed him. Everything went dark, and when he woke up, it felt like a nightmare—only it had no end. Just pain.

  But he was here now. They’d escaped, and he had to forget or he’d go nuts. Some men might want answers or vengeance, but at this point, he only wanted to survive. With some effort, Zeke pushed the past from his mind.

  The spare key was still buried in a plastic bag to the side of the steps. He knocked it against the post, and chips of graying paint flaked away along with the loose dirt. Zeke dug out the key and let himself into the house. It smelled musty, felt damp, and it was cold. If he’d taken any longer, the pipes might have frozen.

  There was no power, of course, and he needed money before he could get it turned back on. Same with the phone. At least he’d never had cable, so one less thing to miss while he tried to put the pieces back together.

  In the kitchen, it smelled worse than musty. In the twilight, he located a box of matches and lit some candles. Everything in the refrigerator had to be tossed. Though he was exhausted—and starving—he found a garbage bag in the cupboard and pulled all the rotten stuff out. He fought the urge to hurl it out the window in a burst of rage.

  Control, he told himself. If he started yielding to those impulses, it would lead down a slippery slope. This, he knew. If he wanted to live in the human world, his instincts couldn’t rule him. He hadn’t eaten in the last twelve hours, and it was a miracle he’d made it back to the farm with no money in his pocket. Though he’d stolen the shoes and clothing, he’d refused to take any cash. He’d just needed to get out of the institutional garb or he would never have found anyone willing to give him a ride. In addition to his feet, three kind souls had gotten him where he needed to go, and he didn’t even know their names.

  He made himself carry the bulging bag out to the rusty silver can behind the house before looking for food. Rituals mattered. They would keep him sane and drive away the voices in his head. Like a mental patient, he had to focus on one thing at a time. Baby steps.

  That wasn’t such a bad analogy. He’d been confined like a loon while they jabbed needles in him, shone lights in his eyes, and then seemed disgusted by his lack of response. Based on their mutterings, they hadn’t been pleased with his results, not that he had any clue what those people wanted with him. Most days, he felt less than human. He’d never had a lot of self-esteem, thanks to his family history, but nobody had succeeded in eroding his sense of self . . . until now. It took men and women in white coats with charts and wires and electrodes to make him feel like nothing at all.

  Zeke studied the contents of the cupboard. Sparse. He hadn’t bought a lot of food at the grocery. He usually canned his own vegetables, but he hadn’t been around to do it this year. Black despair weighed on him, and he forced that away, too. A can of ravioli should still be good. But he couldn’t make himself wait for it to heat. Instead he popped the top and ate it from the can. It wasn’t until he’d finished that he realized he should’ve used a fork. People did.

  Because the farm had its own well, he had water at least, even if he had to use the old-fashioned hand pump. After he cleaned up, Zeke realized he hadn’t noticed the cold. Not like he used to. He wasn’t shivering when he finished. That was a blessing since without power, there would be no hot water, but it was hard to wrap his head around.

  He pushed the confusion down as he dried off and found “clean” clothes in his closet. They’d been hanging for a while and the smell bothered him more than he thought it should. Dust all but choked him. The whole way home from Virginia, he’d been troubled by the sense the world didn’t fit: smells were too sharp, colors too bright, noises too loud. And he was hanging on by a thread.

  Grimly, Zeke dressed. The jeans hung loose on his hips. If he could ever afford new ones, the waist needed to be three inches smaller. T-shirts mattered less, but he had lost some bulk in his arms and shoulders as well. Where he’d once been strong, his shadow self in the dark mirror looked thin and desperate.

  Zeke turned away and headed downstairs, seeking the candles he’d left burning in the kitchen. Most of them needed to be put out. It was then he heard the sputtering cough of a car on the road. But he shouldn’t have.

  It was too far away. He’d never heard engines inside before. No
t through the windows and across the fields, through muffling trees. In silence, he listened to the vehicle choke and die. He could hear what was wrong with it. Zeke fought the urge to shove his fingers in his ears.

  Not crazy.

  Then he heard a woman’s soft curse.

  With every fiber of his being, he wanted to crawl in bed, regardless of how the sheets smelled, and sleep. Without worrying about what would happen to him. He’d escaped that awful place, and he’d prefer to pretend it never happened.

  Only he couldn’t leave the lady out there alone on a country road. That was how most horror movies started. With a low growl, he slammed out of the house.

  The last step bowed a little under his weight, but he leapt clear before it snapped. Fast. Too fast. Should’ve taken some damage there. But he balled that up and refused to think about it. Instead he’d focus on doing something good. He realized he should’ve gotten a jacket, but he didn’t need one and there was no point pretending.

  Zeke covered the distance at a run, even with weariness weighing on him. When he ran around the bend where his driveway met the county road, he saw a car pulled off on the dirt shoulder. This time of night, with the headlights on, he couldn’t tell what color it was. The woman he’d heard cussing must have gotten back inside.

  He jogged toward the vehicle and then slowed, so he didn’t frighten her. Scents of gas and oil, burnt rubber and hot metal nearly overwhelmed him. Zeke took a few seconds before he approached. God only knew how he looked to her, probably like a crazy mouth-breather appearing on a lonely road.

  “You okay?” Clearly she wasn’t. But he didn’t have the command of words he wanted or needed.

  She was smart, cracking the window only enough to reply. “Car trouble.”