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  New York Times bestselling author Lauren Hawkeye never imagined that she’d wind up telling stories for a living…though she’s the only one who’s surprised. She lives in the Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada, with her husband, two young sons, a pit bull and two idiot cats. In her nonexistent spare time, Lauren partakes in far too many hobbies! She loves to hear from her readers through email, Facebook and Instagram! Sign up for Lauren’s newsletter here: eepurl.com/OeF7r.

  If you liked Skin Deep, why not try

  With the Lights On by Jackie Ashenden

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  Give Me More by A.C. Arthur

  Also by Lauren Hawkeye

  Sweet Temptation

  Between the Lines

  Playing Dirty

  Discover more at Harlequin.com

  SKIN DEEP

  LAUREN HAWKEYE

  For Patience and Duran Duran

  Contents

  Prologue One

  Prologue Two

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from With the Lights On by Jackie Ashenden

  PROLOGUE ONE

  Five years ago

  FRED VAUGHAN LOVED AMSTERDAM.

  It was the last stop on the European trip he and his twin, Frank, had taken to celebrate the end of their undergraduate degrees. In the fall they would both be back at school—Frank for a master’s in business, and he to law school—and the trip had been a graduation gift from their parents, albeit a begrudging one on his father’s part. Frederick Vaughan Sr., had expected both of his sons to spend the summer working at Vaughan Enterprises, the massive development conglomerate that his own father had started, but he’d been overruled by his wife.

  Fred was grateful. As a Vaughan, his future was set in stone, and he’d known that since childhood. He hadn’t ever thought he’d minded, either, until he’d had his undergrad diploma in hand and realized that, after four years of killing himself studying while his peers partied, he was about to head right back into the grind. The weight of expectation had started to wrap thin tendrils around him, to tug at his limbs, his skin. Tendrils he thought he could break free of, but the more he pulled against them, the further into the morass he sank.

  So really, he would have loved anywhere that wasn’t school, or home. Anywhere he felt free. But...he really did love Amsterdam. He loved the history, so rich and old that it made the roots of Boston feel shallow. He loved the beaches and the confidence that the European women wore like a second skin.

  He loved the culture, the clubs. And tonight, their last night there, he loved the throb of the dance music in his veins, the rumble of the bass beneath his feet. He loved the icy chill of the beer in his hand and the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor. He wasn’t much of a dancer himself, but he could watch the movement all night. The people. The connections—friends and love and, best of all, lust. People coming together for a moment or an hour or a night.

  “You like to watch?”

  The voice was husky, pitched lower than the din of the club. He looked down—he and Frank always had to look down, because they were each six feet four inches tall—and found himself on the receiving end of an assessing gaze from a pair of bright blue eyes. Those captivating eyes were set in a fairy-tale princess face, though he had the instant certainty that she wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.

  Caught by the question and the intensity of those eyes, he took a moment to reply, a single impression working its way through his brain to his mouth. “Is that a Boston accent I hear?”

  “Ten points for the pretty boy.” She grinned up at him, a saucy curve of full lips painted bright pink, and his eyes tracked the movement. “You expected something else? You sound surprised.”

  He had been, in fact, and by more than the surprise of finding someone from his faraway hometown here in Amsterdam. Though her face was delicate and feminine enough to have fit in among the pedigreed women he’d left back home in Boston, it was surrounded by long, wild black curls A silver ring pierced her right eyebrow, and thick black eyeliner accentuated that deep blue of her gaze. In short, she looked wild. Untamed. Like she’d sprung from the earth right here in Amsterdam, a magical creature wrought from his wildest dreams.

  Looking down into fierce eyes, he felt something stirring inside him. Some kind of primal need awakened, unspooling from a tight knot in his gut, answering her call.

  “You’re staring,” She waved an arm in the air and leaned on the bar to catch the attention of the bartender, who came running the second he caught a glimpse of her lush cleavage. This gave Fred a moment to admire the tattoos that decorated her arms, which were bare, revealed by a simple white tank top. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you that’s rude?”

  He’d never really liked tattoos before. No, that wasn’t entirely true—he’d never given them much thought, especially not as applied to women. He was pretty sure he didn’t know any women who had one.

  “Is it rude if I’m admiring you?” He wasn’t sure where the words came from. He did well enough with women, but his brother was the player—a player he’d forgotten was standing right at his elbow.

  “Smooth, Fred.” Frank grinned at him. Fred scowled as his brother stepped forward, drawing the attention of the ethereal creature in front of them. “Hi, I’m Frank. If you’re interested in the looks without the corny lines, I’m your man.”

  This wasn’t a new scene—Frank had been cockblocking him since they’d both hit puberty—but this time Fred felt irritation flickering little fingers into his veins. He was the easygoing twin, and usually he just shrugged it off when his brother swiped a woman out from under his nose. There were plenty of fish in the sea, after all, and he attracted plenty of his own.

  This woman, though? He was intrigued. He’d punch his own twin in the face before he let her go with Frank.

  The woman had looked from Fred to Frank, her lips curving with amusement.

  “Nice to meet you, Frank.” The woman smiled up at his twin, that sexy voice curving like smoke around her words. Fred puffed his chest out, about to tell his brother to beat it, but he quickly discovered that there was no need. “Wanna go away now and let me hit on your brother?”

  Both twins choked out a startled laugh. Frank looked at Fred, and Fred had a tense moment in which he wondered if his twin was going to push his point. Instead, Frank shrugged before wandering off into the dancing throng of people.

  “Are you always so...” He trailed off as he searched for the correct word. She grinned, the smile like lightning in a dark sky.

  “Forward? Abrupt? Rude?” She accepted one of the shot glasses the bartender handed her. As she wrapped her fingers around the small glass, Fred noticed that she had a delicate black rose tattooed on the top of each of her four fingers, excluding her thumb.

  “Assertive,” he countered. He had a sudden vision of that hand, those roses, wrapped around his cock. Heat licked up his spine when she handed him a matching shot glass.

  “Generally, yes.” She studied the golden liquid in the shot glasses for a moment before shooting him a challenging glance. “Does that offend your delicate sensibilities? Are you one of those men who needs to be in charge?”


  He thought about this for a moment. Thought about the men he knew back home. This woman’s overt confidence would rub them all the wrong way, he knew that without a doubt. Probably because they didn’t have much of their own. They were used to women with good family names, women who’d been raised to support the men in their lives. Women who didn’t challenge.

  He’d never been overly interested in those women, at least not for longer than one night. Now, as if she’d just appeared, was a woman he found fascinating, and he wasn’t interested in anything except being honest.

  “I like being in charge.” He tapped his shot glass against hers. “I like it even more when a woman knows exactly what she wants.”

  He watched as something sparked in her eyes, a deep blue glitter. He couldn’t hear her sharp inhalation of breath, not over the thundering music, but he saw it. Watched the swells of her high, tight breasts press against the thin fabric of her top.

  She wasn’t wearing a bra. Through the translucent fabric, he could make out the dusky circles of her areolas, the tight pucker of her nipples, which were hard—hard for him?

  He could also see that some kind of jewelry adorned each of those taut buds. He’d never seen anything like it, not in real life, and he felt a sharp, physical ache with the need to touch.

  Silently, they each tossed back their shots. Fred’s eyes tracked the delicate lines of the woman’s throat as she swallowed, then the path of her tongue as she swiped it over her lips to catch the last drop.

  “What’s your name?” He caught the shot glass from her hands, set it and his aside, using the gesture as an excuse to brush his fingers over hers. He tangled his own large hand in her small one, tugging her closer to him, close enough that the tips of those adorned breasts brushed against his wide chest. He felt fire in the wake of the touch.

  “Why?” She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, looking up at him from beneath long, tangled lashes.

  “What do you mean, why?” He frowned. “You know mine.”

  “Yes.” She nodded to punctuate her point. “But what does knowing your name is Fred tell me? Does it tell me what your favorite color is? Does it tell me how your skin smells? Does it tell me what you’ll do when I touch you?”

  With her free hand, she traced a finger down the center of his chest, awakening nerve endings as she went. He caught it just before she reached his belt, holding it in place.

  “Right now, my favorite color is pink. This pink, right here.” He lifted his other hand to cup her face, traced his thumb over those pillowy lips. “I’d love to find out what other shades of pink you have.”

  He felt her exhalation, the damp heat fanning out over his thumb as she spoke. “Pretty words, Boston boy.”

  “Here are a few more.” He leaned forward, felt the heat radiating outward from her body. “Come with me. Somewhere, anywhere. Let me find out.”

  “Mmm. Tempting.” She looked up at him, considering, then shook her head. Before he could feel the punch of disappointment, she pivoted. “Dance with me.”

  Fred did not dance.

  He’d actually never willingly joined a dance floor, not once...well, not unless he counted that time he and Frank had sneaked their father’s whiskey into a flask for their cousin Sarah’s wedding, which had turned out about as expected.

  Still, he let this woman—damn, but he wished he knew her name—lead him onto the dance floor. There, she turned in his arms, her back to his front, and cast an utterly bewitching glance over her shoulder. Enticing him.

  Daring him.

  When she released his hand, he placed it on her shoulder, tracing the strong curve. He slid it down, following the graceful line of her arm, the swell of her hip, then back up. He grazed the bottom of her tank, then tucked his hand inside, his palm flat on her stomach. Her skin was soft, hot as silk as she pressed into the touch.

  It was impossible to stay still with this woman rocking gently back against him, with the sea of people around them swaying. The music vibrated along his skin, through his body, driving the thoughts right out of his mind. Leaving room for him to just experience the moment.

  She pressed that tight little body back against him, swaying sinuously. She was tall enough that his pelvis was flush with the curves of her ass, and he felt himself harden as a result of her movements. He felt rather than heard her purr with approval as she noticed, pressing herself back against his growing erection.

  He wanted her like he’d never wanted a woman before. Dipping his head, he inhaled the aroma of her hair, something sweet and green and fresh, before pressing his lips to her temple.

  Her skin was hot beneath his kiss.

  “Come with me.” He nipped at the top of her ear, his teeth grazing the pink shell as he whispered hotly.

  “Where would you take me?” Turning in his arms, she leaned forward and slowly, deliberately rubbed her breasts against his chest. His cock, already swollen, became rock-hard against the stiff denim of his jeans.

  “Wherever you want to go.” He was serious. He and Frank had a room at a hotel nearby—his father had consented to this trip, but no way were his sons staying in some hostel like peons. He could take her there, but a woman might not want to go to a hotel alone with a strange man. A car, a tree in a park, right here, right now—it didn’t matter to him, not as long as he could taste her.

  She didn’t reply. Instead, she sank her teeth into her lower lip and looked up at him through that wild tangle of her long lashes. With one hand, she hooked two fingers into the waistband of his jeans, pulling him close, then closer still, flush against his body.

  With the other she slowly, tantalizingly, brushed the tips of her fingers over the rigid length of his erection. Stars exploded in his vision, and he exhaled hard, his warm breath misting over the long coils of her black hair.

  “Stop.” He caught her hand, stilled it. “This should be about you.”

  “It is.” She arched an eyebrow, expression flirtatious. “This is what I want.”

  Far be it from him to argue with a determined woman. A groan caught in his throat as she repeated the gesture, brushing her knuckles over his rigid length again, this time more firmly. Without even glancing around to see who was watching, she danced her fingers up, then worked them past the waistband of his jeans, rubbing her thumb over the head of his cock.

  In the split second before his brain short-circuited, he thought that they couldn’t do this, not here in public. Then he realized that the only reason he cared was if she did, which she clearly did not.

  She swiped over the head of his cock again, sampling the bead of moisture there before working down farther. As she gripped him with a firm hand, he imagined those roses inked on her fingers, all brushing against the steel rod of his erection.

  He couldn’t hold back the growl when she closed her fist around him. Her fingers didn’t quite reach—he was lucky enough to be big everywhere—so she clamped tightly around him, creating exquisite friction as she moved her hand up and down with a twist of her wrist.

  People rocked in close around them. He didn’t know if anyone could see what they were doing, and he didn’t particularly care. Emboldened by this realization, he moved one of his hands to cup her breast. She pressed against him with a needy roll of her hips as he sampled the plump mound with his hand, stroking outward to the tip. There he toyed experimentally with the nipple, the bar running through it. He knew he didn’t imagine the sharp jerk of response as he tugged on it gently, so he did it again, rolling the tip and the jewelry between his long fingers. In response she worked him faster, harder. He hadn’t come from a hand job since he was a teenager, but as the pleasure from her hand coursed through him and his vision started to blur, he knew that he was about to make a mess of himself against the soft white skin of her palm, right here, right now.

  It wasn’t enough. He didn’t want to come in her hand, but in the h
eated cradle between her long, slim thighs. He wanted her naked and spread before him as he sampled her wet heat. He wanted those pretty nipples, tight as rosebuds in his mouth.

  Reaching down, he wrapped his hand around her wrist, slowly pulling her busy fingers out of his pants. Sliding his free hand around to the small of her back, he tugged her against him, hard. His erection thickened even further when he felt her lush curves, right there against him.

  When she looked up, sharp need in those blue eyes, he claimed her mouth in a kiss. He’d meant to go in gentle, but she gave way so enthusiastically, lips parting for his tongue, that he couldn’t help but accept the gift she’d given. He sipped at her, explored, the kiss somehow as dirty as fucking, and when they broke apart a moment later, both gasping for breath, he couldn’t think, only feel.

  “Come with me,” he said for the second time that night.

  This time, she did.

  PROLOGUE TWO

  Five years ago

  AMY MARCHANDE WAS on fire.

  She wasn’t sure what, exactly, had drawn her to the impossibly tall, lean man in the first place. He wasn’t her type at all. She usually found herself drawn to men, and the occasional woman, much like herself—a little bit wild, rough around the edges.

  There was nothing rough about this man—Fred, his brother had called him—no matter what image he thought he was projecting. Yeah, she’d caught that. She was an artist, after all, and she had spent a good chunk of her life observing—people, places and things. And before she’d even approached him, she’d noticed that he didn’t quite blend in the way she was pretty sure he thought he did. His jeans, for instance—they were distressed, but in a way that suggested they’d come that way from the store, not from wear. His T-shirt was simple, but the fabric was thick, better quality than what could be found at a tourist shop. His sneakers, too, were a brand she knew was expensive.

  It was more than what he was wearing, too. There was something about his bearing, the way he carried himself, that spoke of confidence, the kind that came from an upbringing of privilege. This wasn’t a man who’d ever wanted for anything, who’d ever found a hill that he couldn’t climb. Normally that was a trait that got her back up, but for some reason it didn’t with Fred. It was interesting. As was the gut punch of attraction she’d felt when she’d looked across the bar and had seen him standing there, watching the crowd. Observing, like she so often did.