Serious gray eyes framed by straight dark brows had stared out from a pale oval face. Straight dark hair was held back from her face by a clip and her slim figure was clad in a conservative grey pant suit. Elegantly attractive without being stunning, Morgan McClellan certainly looked the part of the Southern History Museum’s new Publications Manager, but it was the faint sense of vulnerability that had caught Hunter’s eye.
Morgan McClellan’s lush lower lip was pinned between sharp white teeth as though she was nervous of the new responsibility she’d taken on. There was no reason for her to be if the qualifications and experience outlined in the brief news piece were accurate. She had a good degree and six years with Great Western, and her credentials were highly thought of in the museum world.
By the time Professor Janssen arrived back from her tutorial, Hunter had neatly removed the page and folded it into his breast pocket. For the rest of the day, the girl with the most luscious kissable mouth he’d ever seen had stayed close to his heart. She was still there when he made the Cernunnos discovery in France.
On his return to his office months later, a waiting letter from the Southern Museum had caught his eye. The Museum had approached him, as a local son, for permission to feature the torque as the centerpiece of its forthcoming exhibition, ‘More Than Myths’. The slightly old-fashioned, hokey tone of the letter had made him smile wryly but he had met the board and Gus Waugh, the director of displays, and been impressed by the scale of the exhibition the museum was preparing to mount.
He’d feigned a particular interest in the captions and catalogue material for the exhibition, and Gus had immediately arranged for him to meet Morgan. Even thought he had engineered the meeting and thought he was prepared for her, the first sight of her expressive grey eyes and lush mouth had blown him away.
Somehow he had known that she would feel the strange and overwhelming connection between them; and their first meeting didn’t prove him wrong. Her teeth had loosed their nervous hold on her bottom lip, and her tongue had darted out to lick away the dryness. She had wanted him. Hunter didn’t have an egotistical bone in his body but he knew sexual desire.
Since that day though, Morgan had deliberately applied the brakes. In the store room he’d felt scorched by their mutual desire but when it threatened to sweep them away, Morgan brought them to a screeching halt. It was frustrating and it sure as hell was painful.
If Hunter had his way, he would have taken her to bed that first day. Once he’d been inside her, he felt she would find it impossible to detach herself emotionally. She wasn’t the sort of woman who fucked simply for recreation or release. She wasn’t that simple; which was good, even though right now it was damn uncomfortable.
Hunter’s mouth twisted ruefully as he stared out of the oval window of his third-floor office. Right now he wished she was the type of woman who fucked for fun. At least if they had already been intimate, he wouldn’t feel the kind of surging in his groin that brought him out in a full body sweat every time he thought of her. Which was approximately every five seconds. On the other hand, perhaps he would. One time with Morgan McClellan was unlikely to be enough.
His rampaging hormones made him feel like the sixteen-year-old boy he hadn’t really been when he was sixteen. All he thought about was going to bed with Morgan, and if he didn’t get inside her soon he thought he might die. Perhaps he should simply tell her that, he mused. She might take pity on him.
Hunter was certain of one thing: it would happen sooner or later. And when the opportunity came he would ensure he loved her so well and so long, she would find it simply impossible to withdraw from him.
CHAPTER THREE
Morgan woke gasping, tangled in the sheets and the wreckage of her pajama pants. Her head spun with the remnants of her dream, like the mother of all hangovers, but after long moments she dragged herself sluggishly from bed and wobbled unsteadily to the bathroom where she surveyed the damage. Leaning heavily on the vanity, she looked into the mirror to see her flushed oval face staring back at her, her mouth dry and darkly-lashed grey eyes shadowed with fatigue.
She pulled off her ruined pajamas, hands shaking. If it was merely a dream, why was her clothing wrecked? She took off her pajama top to find finger-like blue bruises around her upper arms, and when she titled her face up, an obvious beard rash roughened the tender skin of her jaw.
"What’s happening to me?"
Morgan sank naked to the cool tiled floor, her back propped against the side of the tub while tears of weariness and frustration tracked silently down her face. For long moments she sat there, her slim shoulders shaking, legs folded into her body as she vented her confusion and despair.
Eventually the chill morning air of the bathroom began to penetrate her skin. One shiver followed another until she pulled herself to her feet and wrapped a towel around her body. She turned the shower on, waiting until the water was steaming hotly from the shower head before she shed the towel.
For more than ten minutes she stood unmoving under the spray, her head raised as water coursed down over her hair and body. Finally she found the energy to wash herself. She rubbed hard at her body, as though if she took off the top layer of skin, she could shed the remnants of the dream that wrapped silkily around her like a spider’s web. Finally the water ran cold, forcing her from the shower. She dried slowly, wrapping her hair in a towel as she dabbed moisturizer on her face and slathered her sore body with a soothing lotion.
In her bedroom, Morgan drew the drapes, sending morning light skidding across the dark room. Outside, a stiff breeze sent russet and gold leaves skipping across the street. Autumn was definitely here.
She looked at the clock. Nine. She must have slept longer than she thought, although she felt like she hadn’t had a wink all night. She rubbed her eyes tiredly. She needed coffee. Badly.
Morgan shrugged into a cozy robe and slippers and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen where she brewed a pot of extra-strong coffee, gulping down a large mug of the nearly scalding brew at the old pine table. She felt a little better. At least it was Saturday and for the next two days she vowed not to think about work or about sex-crazed man-beasts or about Hunter Riley. She would enjoy Mary’s company and the lecture they had planned to attend, and then she would spend the afternoon working on restoring the old kitchen dresser she had discovered in a flea market. It had been sitting accusingly in her kitchen for nearly a year now and she hadn’t progressed beyond stripping the top layer of varnish. Manual labor was precisely what she needed to empty her too-crowded mind for a few hours.
With that decided, Morgan felt her weariness lift. She dressed warmly in jeans, tee-shirt and a dark green hooded knit her mother had made. One sleeve was slightly longer than the other and the buttons weren’t quite straight, but it was warm and comfortable. She started to feel hungry and, after a trip to the nearest shopping center, she cooked a big breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast slathered in butter.
Feeling comfortably full, she tidied up the house and put a load of laundry into the washing machine. There was still twenty minutes before Mary was due to arrive so Morgan decided to drop in on her neighbor as she often did on a Saturday.
The elderly, house bound woman had been a long-time friend of her grandmother, and Morgan had known her since she had been a child. Thelma Wick’s house adjoined Morgan’s, but its paint work was shabby and sections of trim were missing. It wasn’t the only house in the row that showed signs of neglect. As the old folks like Morgan’s grandmother died, young singles and families were buying them up and gradually returning them to their former grandeur.
"Mrs. Wick? You at home?" Morgan knocked loudly on the door to ensure the sound reached the old lady’s one good ear.
The front door finally opened and crack and Mrs. Wick’s pointed face peered out. She was notoriously worried about break-ins, despite the relatively safe area.
"Oh, it’s you dear. Can’t be too careful these days. Come in."
She opened the door just
enough for Morgan to enter although she had to turn her body sideways and slide in.
"You OK, Mrs. Wick? I just wanted to check on you after that fall the other week." Morgan looked enquiringly at the elderly woman who looked frailer by the week. Her scalp was visible though her thinning hair and, conversely, bristles sprouted vigorously from her chin. But she was as smart as a tack and refused to even discuss the prospect of moving into sheltered accommodation.
"Oh, that was nothing, dear. Just missed my step. Bit of a bruise but it’s nearly gone now." She peered up critically at Morgan through eyes made glassy by cataracts. She was waiting for an operation which would restore her sight. "You look peaky, though. Boyfriend troubles?"
"Oh, no. Just a few problems sleeping soundly, that’s all." Morgan shrugged her shoulders. "I’ve been frantic at work. The new job is taking its toll."
"Hmm. Come and sit down, dear." The old woman ushered her into her parlor, where heavy brocade drapes shut out most of the natural light. Well-worn floral carpeting and heavy, ugly furniture made the large room seem small. She sat opposite Morgan and took the younger woman’s hands into her own palms where blue veins showed beneath the translucent skin.
"Oh, Mrs. Wick. You know I don’t believe in that sort of thing –"
"The hands never lie, dear." She murmured. "They’re a mirror into the soul if you know how to look for what’s revealed there. Gift was passed down to me by my mother, but she had much clearer sight than I do. Now let me see …"
She studied Morgan’s hands for long moments although whether her cataract problem allowed her to see anything at all was in question. "Well," she said at last, "I can see you’re troubled. It’s because you try to turn away from your fated path, child." She smoothed Morgan’s hands with hers. "There is a tall, dark man --"
Morgan choked back a laugh and the old woman’s face peered up at her accusingly.
"Yes, it sounds like a cliché but I see a man, tall and dark. Not exactly handsome but he has lovely eyes. And, let me see … there is someone else. A shadow … oh –"
She stopped abruptly, dropping Morgan’s hands as though they scalded her.
"What is it? What did you see?"
"Well, there’s a man who wants you." Mrs. Wick visibly composed herself, plastering a polite smile on her face. "There was something else but I’m not sure what. Powers are about as good as my eyes these days, I’m afraid."
She got to her feet and showed Morgan to the door with a little more haste than usual. Baffled, Morgan didn’t even think to resist and found herself suddenly on the steps, the door shut behind her with an audible thump. Morgan shook her head in amusement. Usually the old lady rabbited on and on endlessly, and Morgan would almost have to fight her way to the door when she wanted to leave. It was odd but Morgan didn’t take it too seriously. After all, it was Mrs. Wick who had once told her that she was destined for the stage. As if!
Morgan returned to her own house and had just laid the fire for later when she heard a knock at the door. She opened it to reveal Mary’s friendly, freckled face, which instantly looked concerned when she saw Morgan’s tired features.
"You look like you need a good --"
"Mary!"
Morgan tried to look shocked but couldn’t keep it up and laughed at her friend who stood on the doorstep. She motioned her in and closed the door against the dreary day.
"Seriously, you’ve lost weight and you’re one of the few people in this country that doesn’t need to. How much have you dropped?"
"Oh, not much. I’ll put it on when the exhibition is open and hugely successful."
Mary frowned at her. "Don’t put it off. You look like you need to get a life, kid. All work and no play … well, you know what I’m saying."
"That I’m dull?"
"Well, at risk of it."
"Thanks." Morgan decided to change the subject. "You’re just trying to draw attention to the fact that you look stunning."
"That’s what regular sex does for a girl. Nothing like it for burning the calories and making your skin glow."
"Well, I’ll have to take your word for it," said Morgan wryly. "In fact, I can barely remember what it’s like."
"Hon, you need to get out more. Take up tennis, party a bit … you never know where your knight in shining armor will turn up. Look at Drew and me --"
"Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ll be taking up rollerblading any time soon."
"Don’t you go turning up your nose at rollerblading. You bump into the most interesting people."
Mary’s eyes sparkled with happy memories of her first encounter with her partner of two years, Drew Smith, who she’d quite literally knocked off his feet while rollerblading in the park.
"Any sign of a ring yet?" asked Morgan. Mary had been hoping to make the big announcement for more than a month now. Every time, Drew suggested a romantic dinner she held her breath. But she was still waiting.
"Any moment," she said confidently. "And if the idiot doesn’t get on with it soon, I’ll buy the damn rings myself and just send him the wedding invitation so he knows when to turn up."
They drank fresh coffee in Morgan’s large, airy kitchen as Mary regaled Morgan with tall tales of the subtle hints she’d rained down on Drew’s head for the past few weeks, trying to prompt him into popping the question.
Mary stared around the old-fashioned kitchen enviously. "Lord, I’d love for Drew and I to be able to move into a place like this when we’re married, instead of that ridiculous apartment."
"There’s nothing wrong with where you live," said Morgan. "You have great views of the city."
"Yeah, it’s ok but it’s expensive and it belongs to someone else. Why can’t someone leave me a lovely old place like this?"
"It needs work."
"It’s damn gorgeous, and you’re damned lucky to have such a kind--and dead--grandmother."
"Thanks, I think."
They were both eager to walk to the city library and assumed a brisk pace through the suburbs, arriving flushed and still chatting forty-five minutes later. There was something about Mary’s sunny personality that allowed Morgan to shed her natural reserve without even thinking about it. A small crowd had gathered outside, most rugged up in woolen scarves and hats against the chilly morning air.
They took their seats in the grand old lecture theater to listen to Professor Dorothy Dwyer discuss some of the less well-known Greek myths. It was fascinating stuff if one overlooked the professor’s dry rendering of the tales. Why did historians have to be so earnest, thought Morgan, not for the first time in her career?
"That woman needs a dose of excitement pills," murmured Mary. "She’s about as thrilling to listen to as the washing machine."
Morgan choked back a laugh and turned to nod discreetly at her friend. A slight movement caught her eye and she peered past Mary across the aisle. A familiar pair of amber eyes appraised her warmly, and a mobile mouth widened in a smile of recognition that made her skin prickle and her pulse begin a slow, lazy throb. Hunter Riley was most definitely sexy nice not boring nice.
Mary looked at her, frowned and glanced in the same direction. Her eyes widened slightly and then she smiled knowingly.
"Has the Hunter found his prey?" she whispered to Morgan.
Morgan compressed her lips, turned away from Hunter and forced her mind to return to Professor Dwyer, who continued to drone.
It was impossible to concentrate, though. Morgan could feel his eyes burning across the space that separated them. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and flicked agitatedly through the printed program. In the end she could bear it no longer and lifted her eyes to glance across the lecture theater. She wished she hadn’t.
Hunter Riley’s gaze still sought hers, but there was no smile on his lips, nothing remotely frivolous or flirtatious about his expression. If anything he smoldered, his eyes dark, his chin set in a determined line that seemed to reiterate the last words she’d heard from him. I’ll be back.
; A wave of polite applause caught her off guard and Morgan turned startled eyes to the podium where Professor Dwyer was smiling proudly and nodding to the audience, seemingly satisfied that her audience was hanging on her every word. Automatically, Morgan brought her hands together but her mind was still on Hunter Riley. He wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to confront her. His look had made that perfectly obvious.
"Mary, I’m going to make a run for it," she muttered beneath her breath. "I’m avoiding Hunter Riley at the moment. I’ll call you, ok?"
"Wait --" hissed Mary urgently, but Morgan was off, her loosely-tied black hair swishing like a silken tail behind her. Her slim form disappeared out the front door of the museum ahead of the crowd. She dashed around the corner, slap bang into a hard chest.
"Sorry, I … oh!" Morgan looked up, straight into the cool eyes of Hunter Riley, whose large, capable hands at her shoulders held her steady.
"Are you all right?" he said calmly. He wore a cord jacket above a pair of jeans worn almost white at the knees, and an unreadable expression.
"No, I’m damn well not," she said in a low, irritated voice. "Are you following me?"
For a split second, her thoughts ricocheted to another pursuit, this time at night, when the man chasing her had long dark hair and the spine-prickling howl of a ferocious beast.
"Don’t be silly," he said, mildly. "How can I be following you when you ran into me?"
"That’s splitting hairs," she said, her eyes spitting silver darts at him. "You were lying in wait," she accused.
"Hardly. I was on my way home when I remembered I’d left my umbrella under my seat in the library." He let go of her shoulders and Morgan felt the sudden cessation of warmth. "It looks like it’s going to rain."
Morgan glanced up at the sky where ominous clouds gathered. Damn! Why hadn’t she through to bring an umbrella? She looked around at the emerging crowd for Mary and saw her dashing down the street to the nearby bus stop just ahead of an approaching bus. At least she would stay dry. Mary turned back towards the library as she stepped onto the bus, saw she had Morgan’s attention and gave her a wave and a cheeky lift of her eyebrows before she disappeared.
Darkest Desire Page 4
