Memories of Megan

by Rita Herron

  He plunged his tongue into her mouth and savored the warm way she opened to him as he dragged her into his arms. She cupped his cheeks in her hands and matched his rhythm, sinking against him with the utter surrender of a woman who wanted to be loved. A woman who needed him almost as much as he needed her.

  If that was possible at all.

  He paused long enough to clasp her face and force her to look into his eyes. “I want you, Megan, so much. But if you want me to stop—”

  “No. I want you to make love to me, Cole.”

  “Because you think I’m Tom?” He regretted the question the minute it slipped from his mouth.

  But he would never regret her answer, though it shocked him just the same.

  “I want you even if you’re not.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Megan closed her eyes and sank into the moment. The feel of Cole’s lips on hers. The warm sensuous taste of his tongue. The tender yet hungry way he wrapped her into his arms and held her.

  It had been so incredibly long since she had been held by a man. And loved with the hunger that she felt in Cole’s embrace.

  Whether he was Tom or a stranger, she wanted his body, wanted to know him intimately the way she had known only one other man—her husband.

  He was everything she had ever wanted. Needed. Desired.

  And so much more.

  His tongue swept over her lips, driving inside her mouth and torturing her with erotic thrusts. She groaned, teasing and suckling his lips while he thrust his hands into her hair and tangled it around his fingers. The low sound of hunger he emitted sent warm honey pooling in her abdomen, the burn of passion like an aphrodisiac flowing through her veins.

  He suddenly swept her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom. Megan draped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, her breath catching when he lowered her to the bed. He stroked her body with his, then gently lifted his weight and looked into her eyes.

  The yearning, the whisper of his breath brushing her neck elicited a shiver of longing steeped with such intense pleasure it almost bordered on pain.

  “I have to see you,” he whispered. “I have to touch every inch of you.”

  Emotions welled in her throat as he tenderly undressed her, dragging gentle fingers everywhere her clothes had been, tracing a path of ecstasy with his hand and mouth, and awakening dormant senses that begged for release.

  With a harsh masculine growl full of unleashed passion, he tore his own clothes off and flung them to the floor. Megan’s heart pounded at the sight of his muscular body. Dark hair dusted his broad chest, tapering to a vee down his flat washboard stomach to his sex. She raked her eyes over him, over every hard plane and angle, over his long muscular thighs, the scars on his leg that hadn’t yet healed, to the way his sex throbbed and jutted toward her, thick and hard and ready to take her to heaven.

  Cole drank in the sight of Megan’s beautiful soft body. Delicate might describe her, but undeniably sexy was the word that rose to taunt him. He wanted her hard and fast and anyway he could have her.

  But he couldn’t take her that way or he might scare her.

  He let her look, his sex throbbing bolder at her heated gaze.

  “I have a few scars,” he murmured in a husky voice.

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “You have a magnificent body.”

  A lazy grin curled his lips. He kissed her finger, then drew it in his mouth and suckled the tip. She flicked her tongue out and he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He traced a path across her face, her nose, her lips with his hands, then his mouth, then cupped her breasts in his hands and rubbed his leg over hers. She answered by twining her legs with his and stroking his calf with her bare toes. He thought he might lose it then.

  With a guttural groan that tore from deep inside his soul, he lowered his head and licked at the rosy tips of her breasts, suckling and feeding on her until she cried out his name.

  “Please, Cole.”

  “Please what?”

  “Please…please make me yours.”

  A smile ballooned in Cole’s chest as he rolled her nipples between his fingers and dipped one hand lower to tease the soft contours of her stomach, her inner thighs, then licked his way to her feminine sweetness.

  “Cole—”

  “Shh, I want to taste you.” His mouth found her and he fed his starving soul with her honeyed gift until she finally sighed his name and cried out in oblivion.

  Then he claimed her as his, the way he desperately wanted, taking only the briefest of seconds to pull on protection. He pushed inside her, wrapped her legs around him and thrust to her core, whispering her name and riding her until he felt her shatter around him. Only then did he allow himself to bare his own heart by pouring himself into her.

  MEGAN PULLED THE SHEETS to her neck, her insides shaking from the intensity of their lovemaking.

  She knew, knew without a shadow of a doubt, that Cole Hunter was not her husband.

  The first time had been full of passion and longing, as if they had both waited a lifetime for such fulfillment. The second time tender and sweet. The third time raw and primal.

  Tom had never touched her like that or groaned her name as if he’d die if he didn’t have her.

  Cole turned lazily beside her and propped his head on his hand, then reached for her hand, a cocky satisfied grin on his face. Megan clutched the sheet tighter.

  “You’re not Tom Wells.”

  Cole’s hand dropped to the bed, his smile fading. “Why…do you say that?”

  “I…I just know.” Tears clogged her throat.

  Cole sat up, his mouth tightening. “How can you be sure now—”

  “I was married to Tom, Cole. I slept with him, I knew his body. I knew how he touched me.” She licked her dry lips. “You aren’t Tom.”

  He stared at her, a dozen emotions flickering in his eyes. The silence stretched long between them, filled with threads of tension that snapped and crackled in the air. She heard his labored breathing, saw him struggling for an answer.

  “You don’t think you could have forgotten—”

  “No.” Megan grabbed her robe from the end of the bed, slipped it on and stood, knotting it furiously. “A woman doesn’t forget that kind of passion.”

  “The kind you had with Tom?” His voice sounded low. Angry. Hurt.

  “No.” She dropped her head forward in defeat. “The kind I just shared with you.”

  He was off the bed in a split second, standing in front of her, naked and strong and handsome. He coaxed her to look at him. “Megan, you’re saying that it was more passionate with me?”

  She closed her eyes on a sob. “Yes.”

  He had no idea how to respond except for an odd giddiness that ballooned inside him. “Well…”

  “Don’t sound so smug.” A tear dribbled down her cheek. “Just because Tom wasn’t as passionate or loving or tender or…or—”

  “Or what, Meg?” He tipped her chin up with his thumb, slowly stroking the soft skin beneath. “He didn’t make you hungry for more?”

  She shook her head. “I did love him, though.”

  He dropped his hand, snapped his jaw tight. “I know.” A hint of anger edged his voice. “No matter how much I want you, I’ll always have to fight that ghost, won’t I?”

  She pressed her hand to her mouth. “It’s not that.”

  He grabbed her then and kissed her again, unable to stop the desperate urge to hold her. “It’s not what?” he whispered when he finally pulled away. His expression softened as if he saw the truth in her eyes. “It’s guilt, isn’t it, Megan? You don’t think you should want another man so soon after Tom died?”

  “No.” She ran over to the dresser and picked up a card. “He gave this to me a week before he died. We had our problems but this letter meant he wanted to try to work things out. But we never had the chance.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t have a life with someone else.”

  “Is th
at what we’re talking about, Cole? A life?” She heard the hysteria rising in her tone. “How can we have a life or a relationship when you don’t know who you are. Just look at this handwriting. It’s Tom’s, is it yours?”

  He examined it, then grabbed a pen from the dresser and scribbled her name, copying the message word for word.

  Megan, I want to start over. Meet me tonight. Love, Tom.

  They both stared at the words, then each other, the truth staring back. Cole definitely wasn’t Tom. Then who was he?

  COLE INSTINCTIVELY SQUEEZED Megan’s hand, bracing himself for her withdrawal. And the shot of sexual attraction that rippled between them. Just her simple touch ignited his senses and made his body hard. It had only been hours since she’d lain in his arms, naked and sated.

  He wanted her again.

  But he had no right. Not until he discovered the truth about his identity.

  Because if he was Arnold Hughes, and he had killed Megan’s husband, she would hate him. And if he was that prisoner, Fontaine…

  He couldn’t be a cold-blooded murderer, could he?

  “I know this is hard for you, Megan. But I hope you know I would never hurt you.” At least not on purpose, he added silently.

  But instead of rejecting him, Megan clung to his hand. He wasn’t sure if her lack of withdrawal resulted from his comment or the fact that they pulled into the Wells’s driveway. Seconds later, the overbearing couple reluctantly agreed to let Megan look inside the car.

  “I appreciate this, Mr. and Mrs. Wells,” Megan said. “I’m trying to get the insurance tied up and all our papers transferred to my name.”

  “Yes, well, that’s a good idea,” Mr. Wells said.

  They obviously didn’t intend to foot the bill for any of Megan’s expenses, Cole thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. And judging from their half-a-million-dollar estate, they could easily afford it. The stingy snobs.

  “Who is this man with you?” Mrs. Wells peered down at Cole, her patrician nose wrinkled.

  “Cole Hunter.” He shook their hands. “I came to Georgia to work with Tom.”

  “Actually Tom was supposed to leave him some disks for work,” Megan added. “I’ve searched the office and couldn’t find them, so I was hoping Tom might have left them in the car.”

  Mr. Wells crossed his thin suited arms. “Well, be quick. We’ll be inside. Bring the key in when you’re finished.”

  Megan agreed and Cole waited until the couple left the five-car garage before he opened the door. He searched the glove compartment and under the seats, but instincts told him the disk was better hidden.

  Check the back seat. Tom cut a seam in the fabric beneath the back cushion and taped it shut.

  He hurried to the back seat, knelt down and ran his fingers over the underside of the cushion. There. He had it.

  He turned to Megan and smiled. “I think this is what we’ve been looking for. Maybe we’ll finally get the answers we need now.”

  Still, as he and Megan drove back to her house, questions plagued him. How he had known where Tom had hidden the disk if he wasn’t Tom?

  “I WANT TO GO WITH YOU to read the disk,” Megan argued, when Cole dropped her at her house.

  “No, you’re not going back to the center today. Not after what happened yesterday.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” He gestured for her to sit down.

  Too tired to argue, she complied.

  “First of all, someone shot at you in the parking lot, then you almost died in a fire yesterday. You’re staying home with your security alarm set.”

  “Cole—”

  “Don’t argue, Megan.” His tone brooked no argument. “Besides, Detective Black is supposed to come by and question you about the fire.”

  “When did you talk to him?”

  “When you were asleep at the hospital. He said he’d stop by this afternoon.”

  “All right. But I want to know what’s on that disk.”

  “I’ll be back,” he promised. He gave her a last soulful look, then disappeared out the door.

  Megan watched him leave, a knot of anxiety gathering inside her. What was wrong with her?

  Cole might be that awful Hughes man, or a former prisoner, a murderer. Yet, she still ached to go after him.

  “HI, CONNIE.”

  “Dr. Hunter.” Connie jerked her head up as if he’d surprised her. “How are you?”

  “Good.” He automatically covered the inside of his pocket with his hand, feeling for the disk. Remembering that Connie had been shredding files from his office before the fire, he closed the door and inserted the disk into the computer.

  He sat for a moment and stared at the screen, his hands fisted, his breath tight. He sensed there was more to the project than two prisoners’ deaths. He only hoped this disk revealed the reason why Tom Wells had been meeting that detective.

  Would it tell him who he was?

  He hesitated, half afraid to continue.

  What would he do if he learned he was Arnold Hughes, that he had killed Megan’s husband and that cop? Of if he was that prisoner? Would he able to face Megan again after making love to her?

  “DETECTIVE BLACK, COME IN.”

  “Ms. Wells. I came to the center yesterday about the fire. Are you all right today?”

  “Yes. A little tired still, but I’ll be fine.” She sighed. “I just want this whole mess over with.”

  Detective Black leaned against the fireplace. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

  Megan explained about finding Connie shredding files, then about her trip to the basement to look for those files.

  “You didn’t tell anyone where you were going?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone along the way?”

  “A couple of nurses in the hall, but no one who paid any attention.”

  He made a smacking sound with his mouth. “Found out that patient Boyd had an overdose on Pancurinoium bromide.”

  “That seems suspicious.” Megan explained about his rantings. “Pancurinoium bromide is used in surgery. Daryl Boyd wasn’t scheduled for any kind of surgical procedure.”

  “Do you think he might have been involved in that research project?”

  “M-T?” Megan twisted her hands together. “I don’t know. There is one reference in his chart that he might have been on Nighthawk Island.”

  “Maybe he’s the missing prisoner, Fontaine.”

  Megan tried to digest that possibility. That might explain his death, that is if it wasn’t suicidal.

  “Do you know anything specific about that project?”

  “No.” And Megan still couldn’t believe Tom had gone along with something so unethical.

  “Where’s Hunter?”

  “We found a disk in Tom’s car. He went to the center to study it. He thinks Tom might have hidden it because he planned to give it to your partner the night he died.”

  “I’d like to know what’s on it. Wait a minute.” He snapped his fingers. “How did he know where to find it?”

  “He said he remembered.”

  “So he still thinks he may be your husband? Or he’s psychic now?”

  Megan sighed. “He’s not my husband.”

  Detective Black waited expectantly, eyebrows arched expectantly.

  Megan darted into the bedroom and brought back the card. She refused to tell him she had known because she’d slept with the man. “His handwriting…it doesn’t match Tom’s.”

  “I see.” He studied the handwriting. “You do want to find out who he is, don’t you?”

  Of course she did. Didn’t she? But what if he was that man Hughes? What if he had killed Tom? And Black’s partner?

  “Do you have an idea who he is?”

  “A hunch. But we need some proof. Can you get the pen Hunter wrote with, ma’am?”

  Megan felt as if she was betraying Cole, yet they both needed to know the truth. If he had killed Black’s partner, the detective had a right to k
now. “Yes. It’s in the bedroom.”

  “Do you have a plastic bag you could put it in? I’ll check it for prints.”

  Megan’s breath caught, but she nodded. A few seconds later, she returned and handed it to the detective. Soon they would know the mystery of Cole’s identity, she thought as she watched the detective leave.

  Then what would they do?

  COLE SCANNED THE CONTENTS of the disk, his mind spinning. He didn’t understand some of the technical jargon, another sign he wasn’t Tom Wells. Part of him hated the fact that he wasn’t Megan’s husband, yet a small part of him was grateful.

  He didn’t want Megan to want him because he was her dead husband returned to life.

  He wanted her to want him for himself.

  Of course, if he discovered he was Arnold Hughes, the man who might be responsible for her husband’s death, or if he was Fontaine, a convicted murderer, she would hate him.

  He knew instinctively he had taken a man’s life before and prayed he wasn’t Fontaine. He had had a dark side. He had just been ignoring it in hopes that he was Megan’s husband.

  He skimmed the information on the disk, his eyes narrowing as he read the term Project Brainpower.

  What the hell was that?

  He read on.

  Genetic research to improve intelligence is under way. Plans for the project focus on enhancing cognitive learning through genetic engineering. Research conducted by Denise Harley.

  Hmm, Detective Black’s sister. Black had mentioned she had worked at the center.

  Her research was incomplete but a special team is in place to complete the project.

  Then he zeroed in on Tom Wells’s work on hypnosis.

  Certain drugs, Cognate and its derivates, are being tested to stimulate memory cells for Alzheimer’s patients and have proven effective in maintaining short-term memory problems for other dementia disorders. More specifically, I’m working with patients who have repressed memories due to traumatic experiences suffered in their youth. So, far, results are inconclusive, but fifty percent of test subjects to date have expressed significant improvement efforts in recovering those memories. It is my theory that the patient will not overcome his mental disorder until he has remembered and dealt with the experiences that created the break in his emotional state in the beginning.