Darkest Desire

by Darkest Desire(Lit)

  Morgan stopped at the desk of Edwina’s PA when she noticed the correspondence book. Jubilant, she flicked to W and there was Gus’s name, address and home phone. She rang him there and then but no-one was home so she left a message with the good news.

  Unconsciously her fingers flicked to R in the address book. There too was Hunter Riley’s name and his home address. She felt guilt settle low in her stomach. Morgan knew she shouldn’t be doing this but in one glance she had memorized the address. She knew the area he lived in, and old suburb of big lots and rundown mansions. But what should she do with the information? That was the question.

  * * * *

  Hunter’s ears popped as the 747 continued its laborious descent towards its destination. It hadn’t been a good flight. Delays out of Paris had made everyone grouchy; the leg room seemed to shrink as the flight progressed and overweight business executive next to him was snoring her head off--right in his direction. He let his head slump against the headrest and, almost unconsciously, he thumbed the creases between his eyes. It was the appropriate end to a tough week. Hellish.

  The stress of waiting for the results of the tests had been bad enough--if the torque had been proved conclusively not to originate from the 5th century BC, it would have taken much of the gloss off the find--but, simply, he didn’t want to be in France.

  But the tests were almost certain to confirm the original finding and thus the mystery would remain. Whether it belonged to a warrior who later became deified as Cernunnos, or to some other great fighter, would probably never be known. Maybe it was better that way. At least the exhibition could continue without changes and Morgan wouldn’t have to suffer the wrath of Gus that she’d no doubt been subjected to over the past few days.

  Morgan.

  During the last week, the stress and long days hadn’t allowed Hunter much time to consider the disaster that his personal life had become but in a few hours he would be back home and he would have to decide what to do about his relationship with Morgan. If he still had one.

  In the brief moments he had had to himself, he had thought a million times of phoning her from France but to say what? That he wanted her and needed her? That he was sorry for pushing her too far too fast? That he regretted accusing her of using him? All of that and more?

  He had been ready to phone and spill his guts before that cold little email had arrived. He didn’t know what it meant, if anything, but as much as he read and reread it, he could squeeze no ounce of passion or feeling from it.

  He had deleted it without responding but when he closed his eyes he could still see the brief, businesslike words burned into his brain. If Morgan was ready to come to him then she hadn’t given anything away in her email. More likely she had come to the conclusion their relationship was going nowhere and had already moved on.

  Hunter rubbed his face wearily. Depression sat like a dead weight around his neck while a sense of impending doom pressed around him like a shroud. Maybe things would seem different after a good night’s sleep. Right at the moment, though, and not withstanding the loss of his parents and his broken engagement, he felt as disheartened as he had ever felt in his life.

  * * * *

  Just as Morgan was slipping the key into the door lock, a quavering voice called out to her from the other side of the wrought iron railings that separated Morgan’s house from her neighbor. She peered around the side of the porch to see the old lady standing there, dressed in a warm-up suit.

  Despite her tiredness, she smiled at the old woman. "Hi Mrs. Wick. How have you been?"

  "Can’t complain dear, but I was wondering if you would come in for a moment."

  "Is something wrong, Mrs. Wick?" Morgan slipped her house key back into her pocket and hitched the strap of her laptop case back onto her shoulder as she walked around to take a closer look at her neighbor.

  "Oh no, dear. I just found an old photograph of your grandmother that I thought you might like. I won’t be around too much longer, you know."

  Morgan stepped into the musty house, reaching down to pet the old cat that twisted itself sleekly around her ankles. Mrs. Wick had a soft spot for neighborhood strays. She hoped it didn’t have fleas.

  Mrs. Wick rummaged around in the deep drawer of a heavy Victorian dresser, finally pulling out a sleeve of photographs. She sifted through them with hands that trembled slightly until she found what she was after. She moved awkwardly across the room to sit beside Morgan on the lumpy couch.

  A gnarled finger, twisted with arthritis, stabbed at a tattered sepia photograph of three pretty young women in their late teens or early twenties, arms around each other and smiling.

  "Your gran, Maeve, with me and my sister Bessie." Her filmy eyes grew dreamy with nostalgia. "Lookers we were in those days. You wouldn’t believe how the boys swarmed all over us."

  "Maeve was the choosy one. Bessie and I were long married when she settled on her boy, John. A lovely fellow, quiet. But still waters run deep, as they say. He was your grandmother’s soul-mate."

  "I haven’t seen this photo before," murmured Morgan. "I have others of gran at that age but not this one of the three of you."

  "I have another one, so I want you to have this," said Mrs. Wick. Her veiny hand pressed the photo into Morgan’s smooth one.

  "Thank you." Morgan’s voice was soft as she looked at the photo. "I miss her."

  While she loved her parents and step-brother, she had always been closer to her grandmother. A forceful and independent woman, Maeve, had been the one she’d always turned to at times of youthful crisis. Maeve had always counseled her to trust her instincts.

  Mrs. Wick reached out to pat her hand comfortingly. Wrinkled flesh met smooth for a brief second before the old woman’s eyes flared and she gasped, withdrawing her hand as though stung.

  "What is it?" said Morgan, hurriedly. "Is it your heart? I’ll call a doctor."

  The older woman grimaced as she shook her head. "My heart’s as strong as a bull’s, dear. It’s you."

  "Me?" Morgan was mystified. "What did I do?"

  Mrs. Wick chuckled nervously. "I got quite a charge when I touched you. You’re putting out a very powerful force at the moment."

  "A force?" Morgan hoped the woman wasn’t about to begin spouting more of her mumbo-jumbo.

  "Your emotions must be in turmoil at the moment. Such a charge you gave me." The old woman’s blue eyes stared into hers. "Did that nice-looking man ever come into your life?"

  Morgan frowned as she thought back, her confusion clearing when she remembered Mrs. Wick’s vision the last time she’d seen her. She smiled sadly. "Yes but things haven’t run smoothly."

  "Don’t worry, child. Things weren’t always smooth between Maeve and John, either. Both too strong-willed. You need to give a little."

  "It may be too late."

  "Never too late, dear. You just tell your young man what’s in your heart. He’ll listen." She hesitated. "Morgan.…"

  "What is it, Mrs. Wick?"

  "Morgan … the last time, I read something in your hands. Something that frightened me a little…"

  "Mrs. Wick, I don’t mean to insult your gift but --"

  "Listen, dear, I saw something, something in you. And I have to admit it scared me." She looked intently into Morgan’s confused grey eyes. "You need to face it."

  "I’ve been … troubled, Mrs. Wick, but I’m trying very hard to sort out my life. Maybe that’s what you saw."

  "Maybe." The old lady spoke cautiously. "If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll be able to face what you must. Don’t be afraid."

  Deep in thought, Morgan left her neighbor’s house. At home, she pulled a heavy photo album from the bookshelves in the sitting room and carefully slotted the old photo of her grandmother into a space, smoothing the plastic sleeve over it to hold it in place. She did it mechanically, scarcely aware of her actions. All her thoughts were on Mrs. Wick’s words of advice.

  Morgan stood for long minutes staring unseeingly at the old p
hoto of the three spirited young woman. Finally, decided, she pushed the album back into its place on the shelf. Face what you must. She would do it. And she would do it tomorrow.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A dog howled in the distance and the fine hairs on the back of Morgan’s neck stood up as she pushed open the rusted iron gate. It grated on the old hinge as it swung open and then closed behind her. In the dark, she picked her way along the shadowed drive-way. Overgrown shrubs and weeds spilled from the plantings alongside the crumbling stone drive, brushing her legs with their long damp leaves. She shivered.

  Guided only by a faint light from the porch, Morgan was making her way to the front door when she heard the faintest panting breath behind her. She frowned and turned, wondering if Hunter had a dog. She peered into the gloom but could see nothing. She picked up her pace. The front entrance was still a way off but she continued steadily down the path. The rhythmic pants were now off to the side but still coming closer.

  Trepidation sent a clutch of fear to her heart and she turned again, standing stock still in the dark. The damp seeped through her canvas shoes, and her hair clung clammily to her face. Tendrils of mist hovered eerily over the grass obscuring her view of the house. The worst of the mist passed but, as much as Morgan strained to see the porch light, she could no longer make it out.

  In the mist, she realized she must have strayed from the stone path that led to the front door. She spun around in panic trying to find a point of reference, the gate, the house, but succeeded only in disorientating herself further. The trees were closer than she remembered, their flimsy branches reaching out like the arms of lost spirits, pleading, beseeching.

  One caught her arm and she gasped, thinking a human hand held her. She stopped to release herself, and it was then she heard the animal again. That strange savage panting was closer, more frequent, overlapping. With a start, Morgan recognized there must be more than one beast but the moon and stars were obscured by cloud and she could see nothing but the dark night.

  She heard them sniffing then, not far away. The animals, whatever they were, let off a chorus of howls, more like wolves than dogs. Morgan’s blood congealed in her veins. They had scented her.

  A cry of fear rose in her throat as she took to her heels, striding out through the damp forest. The wind sighed through the trees and shook the branches so they slapped against her face and tangled in her hair, slowing her progress.

  The panting gasps of the pursuing pack were coming closer now. There was the sound of horses’ hooves, the sense of something vaguely human. Morgan could almost feel the hot breath against her neck, her back as she sprinted through the gloom. Hard hands reached out, grabbing her around the waist and she cried out, struggling. This time, it was no tree ensnaring her but unyielding male hands. A scream rose up in her as images of the horned pursuer of her dreams flooded her mind.

  "Let me go," she yelled. Her flailing fist connected with skin and muscle, her nails raking flesh. She heard a male grunt, an intake of breath and then the hands around her waist lost their grip and she was dumped unceremoniously on the ground. She sat there panting, staring up at the figure in front of her.

  "Hunter?" She whispered as she recognized the shock of brown hair. He wasn’t wearing his customary spectacles and his eyes were shadowed, his face etched with tiredness. She had never seen him look so grim. "Hunter, I.…" She turned her head to look behind her into the forest but the trees had disappeared and she could no longer hear the panting of the animals behind her.

  Silently, he reached down a large palm. Morgan stared at him for a moment before clasping his hand and letting him pull her to her feet. When he would have set her free, she clung to his hand, her long fingers entwining with his broad ones. She moved closer to the security his broad frame offered, and turned her head to scan the forest.

  "Hunter, we need to get out of here. There’s something in the trees." Morgan’s voice shook and she took a deep breath before continuing. "I think they were tracking me, following my scent. Like hunting dogs."

  Hunter remained silent, staring at her grimly. Morgan looked away from his intent gaze, and wiped damp blades of grass from the rump of her jeans. "And I heard a horse, and something human, I think, coming closer and closer…chasing me."

  "I heard nothing except you." His voice was terse.

  Hunter shook free of her hand and turned on his heel without saying a word, striding towards the porch of his house, where a welcoming light shone brightly, leaving Morgan to trail after him.

  "Hunter! Wait!" Morgan grabbed him by the arm, forcing him to stop and face her.

  "What are you doing here?" His voice was expressionless.

  "I thought we could … talk."

  "I don’t have anything to say to you." He evidently hadn’t softened his stance during the time he’d been away, his body language rejecting her unequivocally. "It’s cold out here," he said. You should go home."

  "No." Morgan felt a strange urgency grip her body. Somehow she knew that if they didn’t talk now, the chasm between them would grow and bridging it would become impossible. "I’m not going."

  Hunter looked impatient then "Look, Morgan, I’m tired. It’s been a hell of a week and I’m just back from France a few hours ago."

  "I know. I need to talk to you…"

  "If it’s about the torque, everything’s fine. We can talk on Monday."

  Shaking with fear, not knowing what she was letting herself in for but determined not to be dismissed, Morgan strode to the open front door and stepped inside.

  Her eyes moved around the shabby hall. Remnants of its magnificence remained in the ornately plastered ceiling and richly hued rugs remained, but a sense of neglect hung heavy in the air.

  The door slammed behind her and Morgan spun to see Hunter leaning against it. She had a brief sense of a fly lured and then trapped in the spider’s web.

  "Umm, I came to.…" Morgan gulped. "I wanted to see you, to apologize. And to --"

  "Apologize about what?"

  "The way I left that night. It was wrong. Rude." Morgan couldn’t meet his eyes. "I’m sorry."

  "I’m not interested in your apology."

  "I wanted to speak with you about it, but you sounded so angry when you left the museum that day."

  "What the hell did you expect?" Hunter growled at her, eyes stormy. "I’m human and I hate not getting what I want as much as the next guy."

  "Meaning me?"

  "Yes you! I’d made it pretty fucking obvious what I wanted."

  Morgan felt an irritated flush sting her face--one of the disadvantages of having such a pale skin.

  "Yeah, you made it pretty obvious from day one that you wanted to get me in bed!"

  "It wasn’t all I wanted!" Hunter threw back. "You knew I wanted a relationship with you."

  "Yes, but on your terms. You seemed to want to sweep me off my feet--regardless of what I wanted. You didn’t give me a moment to think about things," Morgan fumed. Damned if she was letting him have it all his own way.

  Hunter shrugged helplessly. "How the hell was I supposed to know what you wanted? Every time, I thought we were getting somewhere, you backed off."

  "I told you I had a problem with the timing." Morgan glared, her grey eyes shooting silver sparks. "I had other considerations like the exhibition. I can’t just drop my life because I’d.…" Morgan came to a shuddering halt as she realized what she’d been about to say.

  "Well, I didn’t realize you had a fucking schedule in place for this sort of thing?" Hunter shoved his hands in his pocket and stalked past Morgan into the drawing room.

  Morgan followed him. "It wasn’t like that. I had commitments, for God’s sake."

  Hunter spun back to face her. "Commitments that you wanted me to fit around like I was some kind of afterthought!"

  "You were never an afterthought. In fact for days I thought of nothing but you." She told him hotly. "My days were consumed by you, and my nights.…" She paused and looked away, not
sure what to say.

  Hunter smiled slowly, sensually. "You were saying about your nights?"

  "Nothing," Morgan murmured. She wasn’t quite ready to share the erotic details of her encounters with the warrior of her dreams.

  "Well, if they were anything like that night, then I sympathize," said Hunter. "If it makes you feel any better then my nights have been pretty shitty, too. Wanting you next to me, beneath me." His voice lowered.

  "Don’t!" Morgan slapped her hand against the ancient upholstery of an old couch. "Don’t reduce it all simply to sex."

  "Well, at least I’m not pretending that it wasn’t the best night of my fucking life," Hunter roared, his eyes a furious molten gold.

  "I’m not pretending," she blazed.

  "Well, you haven’t mentioned one word about it voluntarily, in case you hadn’t noticed." His lips were a flat angry line. "It’s like you’d prefer to pretend it never happened."

  "No! Never that." Morgan’s voice softened. "I was just scared of wanting you so much."

  "And now?" asked Hunter, his voice expressionless.

  Morgan stared at him mutely for a moment before she spoke again. "This might take a while. Could I have a glass of water, please?"

  "There’s wine." Hunter struck a match and held it to the open fire, waiting until yellow and blue flames erupted, before pouring her a glass and topping up his from an open bottle on the table.

  She sat on the couch across from him, sipping the wine at first, then gulping greedily until it was empty. He was there ready with the wine bottle, pouring her a second glass before she even asked. The mellow red warmed her, curling through her belly, loosening her tongue.

  "What do you want of me?" Hunter’s voice was low, weary. "I’ve given you everything. The torque is the Museum’s and I’ll sign anything to that effect. You don’t have to sleep with me."

  "For God’s sake, it’s nothing to do with the torque." Morgan’s frustrated voice burst loudly in the quiet gloom of the house. "I know what you think Gus said.…" she looked at Hunter’s implacable face. "Damn that man to hell," she muttered.