Dark Memories (The DARK Files Book 1) (10 page)

So delectable.

So out of reach.

That lone wolf and commitment bit was more about the differences between them than anything he’d done or not done. The truth was out.
Or was it?

After their long-ago weekend together, they’d made plans for him to meet her family. Now that was a laugh. As if her society parents would’ve admitted him to their house, him a biker bum with overlong hair, the son of another bum embalmed in cheap booze.

You’re just like me, boy … no way outta the gutter.

His old man was right. Laura was right. Anything long-term between them made as much sense as sailing his Hog on Passabec Lake. The old differences still separated them.

She wouldn’t admit those differences, even kept trying to minimize them. Had even roped him into sailing yesterday morning. Sailing wasn’t so bad. Ah hell, it was the most fun he’d had in years. Whatever that signified.

When Laura joined him on the porch steps, he filed away his muddled thoughts.
“So what do you usually do on your day off?” he asked as they headed back to her cabin.

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes. I do — 24/7.” He relaxed his fists and smiled at her. She was too pale. Fear of Markos or fear of him?

Dew glistened on the grass beside the gravel path. Birds chirped and dragonflies darted in the peaceful morning’s freshness. The danger of an assassin seemed remote.

She sighed, apparently resigned. “I drive around. That is, I did when I had a car.”

“Sightseeing. Finest kind, as they say here in Maine.” He slapped on sunglasses. “I can put some miles on the bike before I have to give it up to Broadway on Passabec. There’s a lighthouse near Rockland I want to see.”

Alarm darkened her eyes. “But how is that safe? Markos’s agent, this Janus, could follow us.”

He nudged her toward the black-and-silver bike in the totaled junker’s parking spot. “We’ll be out in public the entire time. You won’t see them, but we’ll have backup. Let Janus follow. If he does, he’s mine.”

“I have no helmet.”

She was stalling. “No problem.” He produced two helmets from his saddlebag and held up a gold-colored one. “Not exactly a crown, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

He slid one hand down the sleeve of her cotton shirt, along the cool skin of her arm until he closed her fingers around the helmet’s strap. “And you’ll be warm enough in that fleece-lined windbreaker I saw hanging in your cabin.”

She stood with the helmet in one hand and her house key in the other. He could see her brain spinning this one. Should she shut herself in the cabin or go with him? About when he was sure she’d run inside and lock him out, she said, “I’ll just get my jacket then.”

Tension drained from his shoulders, but he didn’t relax completely until she returned and mounted the bike behind him.

“Is that the same helmet? The stolen one?”

The memory slapped him hard enough to rattle his cage. He was a fool to think he could relegate their past and his simmering emotions to a back file until this was over. Every image from the past was a reminder that she still had secrets.
For now he needed her more recent secrets.
Ones without emotional pitfalls for him.

Digging out the details about Markos and the attack on her filled the bill.

He replied mildly, “No. But this one’s custom-made, too. State-of-the-art. Ready?”

WITH HIS WHOLE being, Cole felt Laura holding on as they roared to the coast, then via Route One through the center of Camden and on south. Her knees and thighs rode against his hips, and her hands rested lightly on his ribs. As he turned and accelerated along the coastal road, he sensed every flexed muscle, the heat and scent of her against his back.

He glanced behind them from time to time. Vehicles came and went. No one but their backup was following them.

He checked on her as well, to reassure himself that she was really there. Wisps of her hair floated out from the edge of the helmet like licks of golden fire.

He slowed the bike through the busy streets of Rockland, then sped up again on Route 73 out of town. The narrow route skirted the harbor, dotted with both fishing and pleasure boats. Laura tapped his shoulder and pointed at a white ferry, its broad bow plowing up foaming waves as it motored in from the island of Vinal Haven.

Grinning behind his visor, he aimed the front tire at a shallow pothole. When the bike lurched, she emitted a squeak and wound her arms more tightly around his middle.

Where he wanted them.

They had no future together, but he couldn’t resist making the most of what time they had. If all he could do was touch her occasionally, that would have to do. He squeezed her hands with his elbows and accelerated up the hill into Owls Head.

On a high point, the white lighthouse tower commanded a view of both the outer islands and the Rockland lighthouse at the end of its mile-long granite breakwater. A light breeze fluttered the laundry hanging on a clothesline behind the white clapboarded keeper’s house.

“Most of these lighthouses are automated now,” she said. “I wonder who lives in the keeper’s house.”

They climbed the steep steps to the tower. The high point provided a clear view of the trails around the light and the beach. A pair of hand-holding teens meandered through the pines, and a family with a toddler and a baby picnicked on a blanket. No one suspicious.

No one who could be Janus.

He watched Laura with satisfaction when she practically purred at the view. She tried to remain so cool and collected, but her sensual nature betrayed her. He enjoyed her pleasure at such simple things as the sun on her face or the salt-tangy scent of the ocean. The way she’d gobbled up her breakfast turned him on.

His body’s reaction made him glad he wore loose khakis.

He cleared his throat. “On a day like this, I bet you can see all the way to Mount Desert Island.” He covered her shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other. “You can follow some of the harbors and peninsulas, but I don’t know their names.”

“I read about the history of this coast.” Her voice was husky. “Before Europeans came to Maine in the 1600s, the Abenakis inhabited the area. They lived inland during the winters, but fished here during the summers. In some places, you can find middens, piles of shells they left behind.”

“Spoken like a true anthropologist. Anthropology, a practical application of history. It suits you. How did a major in anthropology lead to museum work?”

She eased from beneath his hand. “It seemed a natural after summer interning at the Smithsonian. The human side of history intrigues me, the culture and art of ancient peoples.”

He leaned against the building to look at her instead of at the broad bay. He wasn’t certain what he wanted, but trust would be a start, would make protecting her easier.
“Come on. Let’s hit the beach down there.”

They picked their way down the hill along a dirt track. At one point it narrowed, and he placed his hand on the small of her back to guide her ahead of him, but she strode ahead out of reach.

They left the path for the sandy beach. He skipped stones in the receding tide, while she sank down against a log. She tossed her jacket to the side and tilted her face to the sun.

With her, he drank in the peace of the setting. The warmth of the sun and the slap of water on the shore intoxicated him nearly as much being with the woman he—
Waylaying the ambushing thought, he stretched out, one elbow propped beside her on the log. “I hate to disturb your nap, but I need to know how it went down with Markos.”

At his voice so close to her ear, Laura’s eyes flew open. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. She drew in a sharp breath. “Don’t you have a report on all that?”

“A report, yes, but I’d like to hear the details from you. In case they missed some little fact that would help us. Were you in love with him?”
Damn, why did he ask that?

She smiled wistfully, her gaze roaming his face. Her index finger traced the length of the two white scars, first at his temple, then on his chin. “It seems we both have scars. How did you get these?”

Her cool fingers stabbed heat in the center of his body. He covered her hand with his, trapping it against his chin. When she struggled, he dropped a kiss on her palm and released her. He sat up and edged away a foot. If he didn’t watch himself, he’d scare her off.

“Nothing as life-threatening as the way you got yours, I promise. This one—” he pointed to his temple “—was in the jungle. I swear every plant in South America has thorns, some as big as switchblades. And the other was in Afghanistan. We were behind some rocks — that country’s all rocks — and gunfire kicked up splinters. One caught me on the chin.”

Tenderness softened her eyes. “Both sound dangerous to me. Your sense of justice has set your life course. You put yourself in harm’s way regularly. You could have been killed.”

“I wasn’t.”

She levered up to sit on the log. “You were in the Marines then? Or that alphabet-soup agency?”

“We were talking about D.C. and Markos, remember?”

“I see. That’s all you can tell me.”

She turned to straddle the log so she faced him. The cropped pants rode up to her knees, giving him a better view of her legs. Too bad he’d made that no-touch rule.
“Now I’ll answer your question. I was not in love with Alexei Markos. I met him at an embassy cocktail party and saw him again at the museum where I worked. The Silk Road exhibit I’d just organized impressed him.”

“Silk Road. That was an ancient trade route.”

She nodded. A smile played on her lips. “‘From Istanbul to Beijing, from the second century BC through 1100 AD, trade on the Silk Road brought about the first international cross-pollination of goods, knowledge and cultures.’”

“Is that a quote from the museum guide?”

She grinned. “If so, I’m only quoting myself.”

“I’m impressed.” He wasn’t kidding. “Go on. Markos?”

The grin flattened, and she looked away.

He started to take her hand, to offer a defense against the painful memories. But better sense stopped him. Besides, what he’d said to her was true. She was tougher than him.

Behind them at the lighthouse, children shrieked laughter as they raced up the hill.

“He asked me out,” she continued. “He was charming and took me to all the society parties. From the first I knew he coveted my expertise, not my body or my charm.”

Cole heaved a mental sigh of relief. Professional mode, he reminded himself. “What sort of stuff did he pay you to authenticate?”

“As you’d expect, a lot of Middle Eastern art and artifacts, some Chinese. Many were valuable antiques. He had me come to the office at his shop to examine them. Then I did my research and gave him a report.”

“Were they legit? Paperwork and all?”

“All of the pieces had provenance. I had doubts, but no proof of black-market dealings. Values ranged from a thousand dollars to more than a million. I remember a seventh-century Aegean amphora — very beautiful. And a carved Syrian chest. A 250-year-old cypress-wood altar from Anhui province in China. Priceless. Several pieces from Iran, including a two-hundred-year-old brass vase.”

“And the Persian mummy that drove him to murder.”

“The mummy excited him more than any other item. If it had been authentic, an auction might have yielded millions.” Her eyes grew enormous. “Oh, thank God it wasn’t real.”

“The New Dawn Warriors would have had a bundle.”

“And Markos. But I doubt the man who brought it was with the terrorists. Markos would’ve shown more restraint.”

“Only an unfortunate intermediary. And how did you know the mummy was a fake?”

Eyes bright, she bent closer to him. “Although more than a few cultures attempted mummification, the ancient Persians were not among them. And the Egyptians were the only ones with such elaborate knowledge and rituals for mummification. This mummy purported to be Persian, a princess from the court of King Xerxes, more than two thousand years old. She was wearing a gold crown and mask in the Persian style, with an inscription on the breastplate that named her as the king’s daughter.”

He should remain objective, take mental notes. Admiration for her expertise wasn’t helping that effort. “What else?”

“Tests revealed Egyptian techniques. Removing the internal organs, embalming, wrapping. The Persian Empire was far-flung enough that Egyptian embalmers might have traveled to his palace. Someone did a great deal of research. The ruse might’ve worked, except for a few miscalculations.”

“Which you uncovered?”

“Not I alone.” The excitement in her face dimmed.

A seagull soared overhead. Its raucous complaint pierced the calm air.

“You see, this wasn’t the first Persian mummy to be offered for sale. A few years ago, a Karachi museum curator examined one from the Pakistani desert region. She noticed grammatical errors in the inscription. And she knew that the ancient Persians buried their dead above ground. They believed that a corpse would defile the earth. After forensic experts conducted tests, that mummy turned out to be a modern woman with a broken neck.”

“Murder?”

“Apparently. And not just one. There is evidence of a sort of mummy factory in the northern hills of Iran.”

“Gruesome. So you were suspicious from the get-go.”

“This mummified princess had a broken neck too. More tests placed her in the present century.”

He pictured the refined and cultured importer’s jaw dropping. A laugh burst from his lips. In spite of the mummy’s grisly origins, he couldn’t help it. “I’d have paid money to see Markos’s face when you told him.”

A wry smile quirked her mouth, but didn’t lift the pain from her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice caught. “I wish I could forget it. I’ve never seen someone so enraged.”

He clasped her hands. So much for his rule. But this time she didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry. Laughing was thoughtless. Can you go on?”

“Talking about it helps. I’ve had no one to share it with for eight months.” She stood and brushed off her seat. “Let’s walk along the beach.”

Towering spruce trees and pink beach roses edged the pebbly beach, a blooming wall of privacy.