Read Online Dark Memories (The DARK Files Book 1) by Susan Vaughan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Vaughan
Tags: Suspense, Romance, Maine, series, romantic suspense, stalker, reunion romance, military hero, government officer, Susan Vaughan, Dark Files
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returned.
In the dark she fumbled her way out of the clammy sheets. She was calmer now, but her parched throat needed water.She pressed her sweat-damp forehead against the closed door. The feel of the solid wood recalled her to the present.
Her dead son’s father lay out there asleep on her sofa.
Drat the man. He was the cause of the dream’s return. The cause of all her anguish. Tears leaked from her squeezed eyelids. How could she have any left?
Following the roller-coaster ride that had totaled her car, the day had continued its downhill slide. A wary Cole in military mode stayed close, a wolf on lookout. They cleared up past misunderstandings, but his not knowing the rest was a guillotine hanging over her head. If he kept badgering her, eventually she’d have to tell him.
At least part of the story.
Her emotions were too raw, and she feared breaching the dam if she explained now. She didn’t owe him all of it.No, that was her private, lonely hell.
His reentry into her life had dumped her into a new level of the Inferno. The man was much more than the boy, a man to make her long for impossible dreams. Every minute with him burned that into her soul. He still knew her too well for her to dissemble for long. How long could she last?
Seeing pity and rejection in other people’s eyes had cut her deeply. Seeing them in his would kill her. She would endure his suspicions. He knew she wasn’t giving him the whole story.Single people adopted children all the time. She’d made appointments at three agencies, but witnessing murder abruptly cancelled them.
She’d had two serious relationships after Cole, and both ended after her admission. A man wanted his own progeny.Cole especially.
He’d left, grim-faced and strung tight. A while later, he reappeared. No more bivouacs in the woods, he said, plopping his duffel on her living room floor. By tacit consent, they avoided any further mention of the past.
And now he was snoring on her sofa.
The bathroom faucet sometimes shrieked like a teakettle. So if she wanted water, could she sneak by him to the kitchen without waking him?
Awareness of his presence kept her so tense that her muscles and her temple ached. When he’d showered, she tried to think of anything but his fit, muscular body dripping with soap — her soap. After he settled down, she tried not to listen to every creak of the wooden frame, tried not to wonder if he slept in his underwear. Or in nothing at all.
Surely he slept soundly. Didn’t spies and soldiers, like doctors, learn to sleep anywhere, anytime?
He slept, but she lay awake until exhaustion finally overtook her. Then the nightmare strobed her mind’s screen and woke her. The waking memories were no less torturous.
She didn’t usually close her bedroom door, so she didn’t know if it squeaked. Drawing a deep breath, she twisted the flimsy metal knob slowly.
Silence.
She pulled the door open.
Silence.
Relaxing a bit, she eased barefoot across the threadbare carpet into the living room.
“Are you okay?” He clicked on the table lamp.
Chapter 8
SHE STARTED, AT his sexy, sleep-thickened voice as much as at the bulb’s glare through the stained paper shade. His liquid drawl tempted her to curl up with him on the couch.
He was propped on his elbows, his bare chest above the sheet and light blanket. Whorls of dark, curling hair sprinkled the muscled planes of his chest. Denser than in his youth, but not so heavy a woman’s fingers couldn’t reach the firm, warm flesh beneath. On his flat stomach, the ebony hair arrowed downward to disappear beneath the thin coverlet.
She couldn’t swallow. Her mouth was the Sahara. “I’m fine. Just thirsty.”Drat. All she wore was a T-shirt and boxers. She scooted sideways to stand behind the only upholstered chair. Not much cover, but most of the room lay in shadows.
“You sure? I heard groans. It’d be a miracle if you didn’t have nightmares. The murder attack or the car
In the dark she fumbled her way out of the clammy sheets. She was calmer now, but her parched throat needed water.She pressed her sweat-damp forehead against the closed door. The feel of the solid wood recalled her to the present.
Her dead son’s father lay out there asleep on her sofa.
Drat the man. He was the cause of the dream’s return. The cause of all her anguish. Tears leaked from her squeezed eyelids. How could she have any left?
Following the roller-coaster ride that had totaled her car, the day had continued its downhill slide. A wary Cole in military mode stayed close, a wolf on lookout. They cleared up past misunderstandings, but his not knowing the rest was a guillotine hanging over her head. If he kept badgering her, eventually she’d have to tell him.
At least part of the story.
Her emotions were too raw, and she feared breaching the dam if she explained now. She didn’t owe him all of it.No, that was her private, lonely hell.
His reentry into her life had dumped her into a new level of the Inferno. The man was much more than the boy, a man to make her long for impossible dreams. Every minute with him burned that into her soul. He still knew her too well for her to dissemble for long. How long could she last?
Seeing pity and rejection in other people’s eyes had cut her deeply. Seeing them in his would kill her. She would endure his suspicions. He knew she wasn’t giving him the whole story.Single people adopted children all the time. She’d made appointments at three agencies, but witnessing murder abruptly cancelled them.
She’d had two serious relationships after Cole, and both ended after her admission. A man wanted his own progeny.Cole especially.
He’d left, grim-faced and strung tight. A while later, he reappeared. No more bivouacs in the woods, he said, plopping his duffel on her living room floor. By tacit consent, they avoided any further mention of the past.
And now he was snoring on her sofa.
The bathroom faucet sometimes shrieked like a teakettle. So if she wanted water, could she sneak by him to the kitchen without waking him?
Awareness of his presence kept her so tense that her muscles and her temple ached. When he’d showered, she tried to think of anything but his fit, muscular body dripping with soap — her soap. After he settled down, she tried not to listen to every creak of the wooden frame, tried not to wonder if he slept in his underwear. Or in nothing at all.
Surely he slept soundly. Didn’t spies and soldiers, like doctors, learn to sleep anywhere, anytime?
He slept, but she lay awake until exhaustion finally overtook her. Then the nightmare strobed her mind’s screen and woke her. The waking memories were no less torturous.
She didn’t usually close her bedroom door, so she didn’t know if it squeaked. Drawing a deep breath, she twisted the flimsy metal knob slowly.
Silence.
She pulled the door open.
Silence.
Relaxing a bit, she eased barefoot across the threadbare carpet into the living room.
“Are you okay?” He clicked on the table lamp.
Chapter 8
SHE STARTED, AT his sexy, sleep-thickened voice as much as at the bulb’s glare through the stained paper shade. His liquid drawl tempted her to curl up with him on the couch.
He was propped on his elbows, his bare chest above the sheet and light blanket. Whorls of dark, curling hair sprinkled the muscled planes of his chest. Denser than in his youth, but not so heavy a woman’s fingers couldn’t reach the firm, warm flesh beneath. On his flat stomach, the ebony hair arrowed downward to disappear beneath the thin coverlet.
She couldn’t swallow. Her mouth was the Sahara. “I’m fine. Just thirsty.”Drat. All she wore was a T-shirt and boxers. She scooted sideways to stand behind the only upholstered chair. Not much cover, but most of the room lay in shadows.
“You sure? I heard groans. It’d be a miracle if you didn’t have nightmares. The murder attack or the car
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